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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745731">epipremnum aureum</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/intextrovert/pseuds/intextrovert'>intextrovert</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Confinement, F/F, because the world needs more fluffy lesbians, fluff in the time of a worldwide pandemic, trust the fluff tag y'all it's there for a reason, update: just want to add that no one dies or anything</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:14:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,645</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25745731</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/intextrovert/pseuds/intextrovert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Also known as the confinement AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>345</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. prologue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, this is a multichap.<br/>No, it is nowhere near finished yet.<br/>Updates might be very far between.</p><p>Thanks to @twohundredthousand, without your encouragement this might have been trapped in the voids of googledoc forever.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>[Paris, Île-de-France, March 10 2020, 09:32]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Héloïse, I need the character descriptions in..” Antoine comes to a halt in the doorway of her office, glancing at his watch, “Twenty-eight minutes, max. Preferably sooner.”</p><p>She waves at him, dismissively, keeping focus on her on-going phone call.</p><p>“Twenty-seven and a half,” he stresses, and she nods at him until he goes away.</p><p>Thirty-five minutes, a cup of tea and a fight with the printer later she has a stack of warm A4 sheets in her hand. The same documents are already in Antoine’s inbox, and in a digital cloud that they both have access to, but he’s painfully old-fashioned in some ways and prefers physical copies of things. Héloïse prefers not chopping down trees unless necessary, but whenever she brings that up he starts humming La Vie En Rose slightly off key, so she doesn’t mention it too often for the sake of her ears.</p><p>Héloïse is a few efficient strides with a hint of “sorry I’m handing this over seven minutes later than you asked for” away from entering Antoine’s office, when she comes to a sudden halt. He rarely pulls the blinders, and through the glass wall she can see him talking to a tall, dark haired woman, probably around her own age.</p><p>That was not what Héloïse had been expecting.</p><p>In all fairness, Héloïse hadn’t been expecting anything or anyone in particular, it’s not like she makes a habit of having expectations about freelancers, but something about the stranger talking to Antoine makes her stop dead in her tracks. She's pretty, no doubt about it, but there's something else too.</p><p>Antoine is waving impatiently at her through the glass, and she can feel her brain doing a quick reset as she walks the remaining five-six steps into his office.</p><p>Héloïse hands him the bunch of papers, and is rapidly introduced.</p><p>“Héloïse, this is Marianne Laurent, the illustrator who will do the artwork for the Druid series, Marianne this is the editor, Héloïse Marteau.”</p><p>A handshake – soft, but firm, a quiet voice replying “enchantée”. Bright eyes looking straight at Héloïse, confident in a way that does not at all match her speaking volume. Green- no, maybe- Héloise catches herself staring, trying and failing to figure out what colour Marianne’s eyes are. Two seconds later than socially acceptable, she lets go of her hand as if it burned all of a sudden.</p><p>Antoine’s phone goes off and he excuses himself to pick it up, the world winding back up to normal speed. Marianne crouches down and starts rummaging around for something in her backpack, leaving Héloïse hovering, unsure if she’s needed anymore or not.</p><p>“Um, how come you are wearing wellies?” Héloïse asks with a nod to Marianne’s footwear of choice, partly because she’s curious and partly because the not-silence of Antoine babbling is stressing her out.</p><p>Marianne looks up at her, shaking her head to the side, repeating the movement twice to get some hair out of her eyes.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>Héloïse stutters. “Wellies. It’s not the most common footwear. In Paris. You know.” She feels her cheeks flush as she hears the words stumble out of her mouth.</p><p>Antoine's head pops up from behind his computer screen, phone call apparently finished, and he gives her a long stare. “Since when do you notice someone else’s clothes?”</p><p>She has no good answer, and there’s a prolonged silence that is only broken when the printer under Antoine’s desk starts to loudly spit out papers at an alarming speed.</p><p>“Anyway, you’re on CC in everything regarding the cover art,” Antoine says in lieu of dismissing her. Héloïse nods “and you can just pass any detailed questions to her directly,” he continues, waving in Héloïse's general direction while addressing Marianne, who also nods.</p><p>“Cool, I’ll just-” Héloïse gestures vaguely at the door and scurries back through the hallway to the safety of her own office, leaving Antoine and Marianne to sort out whatever boring paperwork was churned out of the printer. She shuts the door behind her and slumps down in her desk chair. No “nice to meet you”, no “have a nice day”. Nothing. Nothing but a weird question about footwear, that went unanswered at that.</p><p>Héloïse stays hidden in her office until long after Marianne certainly must have left the building.</p><p>She stares out the window, at the raindrops slowly trickling down the glass, thinking about rubber boots and pretty girls, and how to hopefully rebuild some very clunky and uncooperative sentences about a tree.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[Paris, Île-de-France, March 13 2020, 10:58]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s Friday the thirteenth and Héloïse is definitely not superstitious, but she would be lying if she said she didn’t feel a little bit suspicious today.</p><p>First, her bike had a flat tire and she had to take the Métro to work. She dislikes rush-hour Métro any day, but today it felt more claustrophobic than ever. Everytime someone as much as hinted at clearing their throat, the mood in the carriage got hyper tense, and Héloïse was extremely aware of the strangers pushing into her personal bubble. A few people had taken to wearing rubber gloves, or scarves pulled over their faces, which technically would be illegal, but desperate times apparently makes vaguely racist laws redundant, or something like that.</p><p>Then, there were no bags left of the nice mint-tea in the office kitchen, only earl grey, which is a decent tea too by all means, but Héloïse had really been looking forward to a cup of the mint variety.</p><p>Two important phone calls didn’t happen because apparently the authors she had to get back to had both decided on taking an early weekend.</p><p>And last but not least, a group meeting, and it’s not even past lunch yet.</p><p>Héloïse hates meetings.</p><p>It’s a combination of things, really. Firstly, they’re almost always painfully inefficient. Secondly, it involves people, and Héloïse is not necessarily a fan of that. And she has to leave her cosy office for the sterile meeting room with its uncomfortable chairs and vague echo. In conclusion, meetings suck. Slightly less so if there are pastries to be had, but still.</p><p>Today’s meeting will be dull, Héloïse knows it beforehand. There is a basket of pain au chocolats, but there are also a lot of people. Not just the regular bunch of staff, but some freelancers and other characters too.</p><p>The illustrator – Marianne, she reminds herself as if she had forgotten – is there. She doesn’t say anything, just sits very straight in her chair a few seats to the right of Héloïse, looking politely in the direction of whoever’s currently talking. Occasionally she takes notes, or doodles, Héloïse can’t see, in a notebook.</p><p>Naïma goes on and on and on about numbers and deadlines and upcoming projects, but it’s background noise. Héloïse is busy looking at Marianne’s hand, gently holding a pencil. For a second she looks up and their eyes meet, but before Héloïse even has the time to look away she has averted her eyes again.</p><p>The meeting drags on, and when they’re finally released Héloïse intends to make a beeline for the peace and quiet of her own office. She’s had enough of people in groups for now, she plans on locking herself in with manuscripts for the rest of the day.</p><p>Marianne is stuffing some papers into her faded red backpack. Hipster, Héloïse thinks, before remembering that she has a backpack just like that one too, and that she uses it almost every day. Marianne’s backed up against the glass wall and with the chair between her and the table, Héloïse can’t pass through. She contemplates walking back and around the other side of the ridiculously long table but Marianne chooses this very moment to look up and say hi, once again doing that thing where she shakes her head a little to keep hair away from her eyes, and so Héloïse stays where she is.</p><p>“Hello.”</p><p>“Hi.”</p><p>“You said that already.”</p><p>“Yes. Yes I did,” Marianne smiles.</p><p>“Sorry about the meeting. It could have been emails, that’s almost always the case.”</p><p>Héloïse isn’t sure why she is apologising for a meeting that she wasn’t the one inviting Marianne too, and that she hardly even participated in, but here she is, apologising nonetheless.</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry about that, it is nice to get out and about sometimes. I got some thinking done, and a nice walk to get here. And a pain chocolat.”</p><p>Héloïse smiles. It makes her happy when other people appreciate pastries too. Marianne also has some tiny flakes stuck to her cardigan as evidence.</p><p>“You have crumbs.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>She looks down at her chest and brushes them off, all but one very persistent that requires actual picking to let go of the navy knitted cotton.</p><p>“Thanks for letting me know.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.”</p><p>Marianne zips up her backpack and flings it over one shoulder. Héloïse trails after her out of the meeting room. Before she has time to consider when, and how, to say goodbye (because she is determined to actually say goodbye like a functional adult this time, not just vanish like the other day) Antoine appears, stopping them.</p><p>“Marianne! How are the mockups coming along?”</p><p>“Oh, just fine, I think. I should have a few more detailed options done by the beginning of next week.”</p><p>“Super,” Antoine says.</p><p>“I’m just really excited about the artwork,” Marianne says, her face lighting up. “I haven’t been commissioned to do something quite so big in a while, like, the series aspect of it and working out a complete graphic theme.”</p><p>“It will be great, I’m sure,” Héloïse says. “Judging by the stuff I’ve seen so far you seem to have a good grasp of the general vibe, are you sure you haven’t read the whole story?”</p><p>Marianne shakes her head.</p><p>“Actually, I forgot to tell you the other day, but it was Héloïse that put your name forward when we were looking for new artists,” Antoine points out.</p><p>Héloïse shrugs, looks down at her feet, then up again.</p><p>“Well, not your name. I didn’t know your name. I look up art, online, sometimes. I found your paintings on Instagram, I liked them. Especially the ones with trees.”</p><p>Marianne smiles at her. “Thanks.”</p><p>“I thought there was something very solid about them. Looking at them made me feel as if I was in a deep, ancient forest, where daylight never reaches the ground. You know where sounds are muted, but also always sprinkled with the noise of rustling leaves so it’s never perfectly quiet.”</p><p>“Please excuse her, she’s almost as good at babbling about trees as Tolkien was,” Antoine says, grinning when Héloïse glares at him.</p><p>“But that reminds me,” he continues, “I forgot to ask you earlier – how come you keep an anonymous Instagram for your art? Isn’t the point of social media to put your name out there?”</p><p>Marianne chews on her bottom lip before answering, thoughtful.</p><p>“I don’t think I have a clear explanation actually. But it’s at least in part because I don’t want to <em> promote </em> my art through it per se. Of course I want it to be seen, but I don’t keep the Instagram account as a way for me to get attention. I just want to share what I make, it’s more important for me that it is seen than that whoever is looking knows that I’m the one who made it. Does that make any sense?</p><p>Héloïse nods in agreement.</p><p>“Well, I’m happy that you answer messages on there even though it’s anonymous, or it would have been difficult to hire you,” Antoine smiles.</p><p>“Anyways,” Marianne says, making a gesture like she’s looking at a watch, even though her wrist is bare, “I should be going. Duty calls, and all that. Have a nice weekend!”</p><p>Héloïse raises her hand in a half-hearted wave.</p><p>“You know what?” Antoine says, as Héloïse watches Marianne walk over to the elevator, push the button, and shuffle on her feet waiting for it to arrive. No wellies today, the sun is shining.</p><p>“No idea, actually.”</p><p>“I’m gonna do you a favour.” Then he calls out, louder, “Hey, Marianne,” walking towards her, Héloïse hesitantly on his heels. Marianne turns on the spot where she’s waiting for the elevator, the backpack slung over one shoulder swinging.</p><p>“Do you wanna meet us later for apéro? We always have a few drinks on Friday evenings. I figured freelance life might be solitary sometimes?”</p><p>“Yeah, um, sure.”</p><p>“Unless you have other plans, of course.”</p><p>“No, no I don’t.”</p><p>“Cool. I’ll text you the location. Most of the people from the office usually come. Héloïse will be there,” he adds, and for a second, Marianne looks right at her. There’s something searching in her eyes, and Héloïse feels like someone just opened a window to let sunshine and a light breeze in.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They’re at a bar not far from the office. It’s loud, and packed with people – small enough to have escaped the crowd restrictions, small enough to have Héloïse pushed into Marianne’s personal space in a corner at the far end of the bar, overlooking a dart board where Antoine is currently suffering brutal defeat.</p><p>“So what things do you do that aren't book-related?”</p><p>Héloïse ponders the question for a moment, wanting to make herself seem as interesting as possible.</p><p>“I.. eat food. And I spend time outdoors. And listen to music.”</p><p>So much for talking herself up. Being on her third pint certainly doesn’t help matters either. And Marianne is smiling again, leaning back against the bar. It’s super distracting.</p><p>“Aha, okay. Outdoors doing what?”</p><p>“On weekend mornings I run. At least 10 k.”</p><p>“Every weekend morning?”</p><p>Marianne sounds vaguely appalled.</p><p>“Yes. It’s important to maintain a routine.”</p><p>“So if I called you, say, tomorrow morning at around nine, you would be out running?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“I don’t believe you. Not a chance. All you will be doing tomorrow at nine is sleeping off a hangover.”</p><p>“Wanna bet?”</p><p>“Sure. On what?”</p><p>“Eternal glory.”</p><p>Marianne chuckles.</p><p>“I was gonna suggest ice cream, but I guess eternal glory will do.”</p><p>They shake hands, very fake-formal and serious, and have a shot each to seal the deal. A small voice in Héloïse’s head is trying to draw attention to shots being very counterproductive to the mission of going running in nine and a half hours or so, but she ignores it.</p><p>“So, can I have your number?”</p><p>Héloïse blinks at Marianne.</p><p>“I’m gonna need your number so I can call and check up on our bet tomorrow morning.”<br/>
<br/>
“Ah, yes. Right.”<br/>
<br/>
Marianne’s phone materializes in her hand, she taps the screen a few times before looking expectantly at Héloïse.</p><p>“Zero six, no, seven. No..” Héloïse groans, scratching her head. “I know my own number, I do, but it’s all muscle memory.”</p><p>“Here, you do it then.”</p><p>Marianne hands over the phone, a beaten up Android with speckles of acrylic paint on the back of its rubber case. Héloïse is tempted to put something funny instead of her actual name, but decides against it. First and last name will do, in case Marianne knows any other Héloïses. Giving the phone back, their fingers brush.</p><p>Héloïse doesn’t realise that she zoned out a little until her own phone buzzes in her back pocket.</p><p>“There you go,” Marianne says, and takes another swig of beer.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Please not a night club, I hate night clubs,” Héloïse whines and downs the remainder of her drink.</p><p>She’s way more drunk than initially planned, and the lights that just came on is making her eyes hurt, which in turn is making her whiny. Plus, Marianne seems to have disappeared, and her absence feels very disappointing somehow. They had been deep in a conversation about the cultural impact of American teen dramas when Marianne had excused herself to the bathroom and never reappeared, leaving Héloïse alone to deal with Sofiane and to a larger extent Christophe, who needed all but five seconds to completely derail the topic and go on a rant about the brilliance of Family Guy. Héloïse is maybe dying a little on the inside.</p><p>“Yeah, Hélo, we know. You’re allergic to night clubs, and fun, and people, and pretty much everything except books,” Christophe snaps at her.</p><p>“Guys, stop squabbling.”</p><p>Antoine walks up to them, always the mediator.</p><p>“We can go to my place. I have drinks, I have no flatmate, and I have a conveniently old downstairs neighbour who takes her hearing aids out before she goes to bed,” he continues.</p><p>“And you live close,” Christophe adds, rising from his stool with a slight wobble.</p><p>“That too.”</p><p>“Onward, to glory!” Christophe exclaims, making a grand gesture with his arm, and Héloïse almost, <em> almost </em>, finds him funny, but she’s busy tapping out a text to Marianne, hoping, <em>hoping</em> that she hasn't left for real, and thankfully catches herself before laughing out loud.</p><p>“You’re so having water when we get to mine,” Héloïse hears Antoine mutter as Christophe flings his arm around him.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Héloïse thinks long and hard about it, but eventually she places her left arm around Marianne’s waist, because there is no less awkward spot to put it. She’s mentally prepared to be shrugged away, but nothing happens. Marianne just keeps talking to Antoine, and Héloïse is fifty percent more comfortable than before. Still bewildered at the fact that Marianne is on her lap, considering there’s at least half a couch free for her to sit on, but comfortable.</p><p>The issue of her right arm is a trickier one. There is no space for it on the seat of the couch – Marianne has put her legs there, scooted all the way up to the backrest. And putting her hand on Marianne’s thigh feels like a lot. Instead she resorts to draping it over the back of the couch, trying hard to not think of how she feels like a fuckboy leaned back with a pretty girl on her lap.</p><p>She’s lost in thoughts about her arm and Marianne’s thighs when she realizes that she is being talked to.</p><p>“Comment?”</p><p>“Antoine asked how long you think we have left before they lock down everything.”</p><p>Héloïse just groans.</p><p>“I feel you,” Marianne says. “The conversational topics have become very narrow lately.”</p><p>“Ugh yes. Either way, there’s no chance we make it through next week without some kind of forced confinement, I’m sure.”</p><p>“Guess a day then,” Antoine says.</p><p>“A day for what exactly? Them telling us when, or the actual lockdown day?”</p><p>“Lockdown day.”</p><p>“Euh.. Wednesday?”</p><p>“I heard a rumour that if they go through with it, it’s 45 days straight away, and they’re bringing in the military to enforce it,” Marianne adds. Héloïse groans again.</p><p>“45 days? No way, they’ll never get away with that,” Antoine protests.</p><p>Héloïse feels her focus slipping again, she keeps sipping from her beer even though she knows it will make her life hell tomorrow. The conversation ambles on.</p><p>Somehow Marianne’s hand ends up at the nape of Héloïse’s neck, absentmindedly playing with the fine hairs there. Héloïse can feel her braincells making a joint effort to all just pack up and leave when Marianne, giggling, nudges her a little.</p><p>“Look at Christophe.”</p><p>Marianne is leaning close, close to Héloïse’s ear. Christophe’s misfortune – passed out on Antoine’s couch – is a very pleasing situation in itself, but having Marianne so close? Héloïse thinks she might have been transported to a separate dimension of only nice things.</p><p>“The idiot,” she agrees.</p><p>Marianne just nods, forehead brushing against Héloïse’s temple. Then she stills, and for a little while they just sit there, watching as the party slows down around them. Gathering a little courage, Héloïse lifts her hand off the couch backrest and instead starts drawing random patterns on Marianne’s knee. Her heartbeat turns into thunder in her ears, the minutes passing by in silence.</p><p>“Walk me home?” Marianne asks eventually, quiet, only for them to hear. They get up and Héloïse helplessly follows her to the door, their fingers loosely tangled, saying quick goodbyes to the few people still awake as she goes.</p><p>It’s the sensible thing, they found out earlier that they live in the same arrondissement, only a few blocks apart. Although there’s nothing sensible at all about how Marianne is playing with her fingers, only letting go to pull her jacket on.</p><p>The walk home is more of a ramble, or a stroll. Héloïse, used to passing through life in efficient strides finds herself slowing down, and stealing glances whenever she thinks Marianne won’t notice. It might take them twenty minutes – it feels like forever and no time at all – but eventually  they’re stood in front of Marianne’s building.</p><p>“Um, goodnight then,” Héloïse mumbles, eyes fixed on a spot on Marianne's right shoulder. Her hands are pushing deep into the pockets of her jeans, she's weighing back and forth on her feet before turning to walk the remaining blocks home.</p><p>She’s stopped halfway through her step, when Marianne grabs her by the elbow and pulls her back. For a moment they just look at each other, Héloïse thinks that Marianne is going to say something, but no words come out. And then, Marianne’s mouth is warm on her own, rushed, with a lingering taste of beer.</p><p>She is just finding her footing when Marianne breaks the kiss. </p><p>“Oh hell yeah,” Héloïse thinks. Then Marianne starts giggling, and Héloïse realises that she spoke out loud.</p><p>“Glad to know you’re enthusiastic.”</p><p>Héloïse nods, a dopey smile on her face.</p><p>It’s like someone flipped a switch, everything has turned bright and clear – the blurry feeling of <em> is she actually flirting with me or is she just being cuddly </em> from before suddenly sharp as a perfectly rendered photo. She is – she was.</p><p>What a difference the touch of lips can make, Héloïse has time to think before said lips are on hers again, pulling her along until they come to a natural halt as Marianne’s back hits the door. There’s a hand at the small of her back, determined to hold her close, and the insistence of keeping them together is making Héloïse weak in the knees.</p><p>A loud knock rips them both back to reality. Héloïse lifts her head from where she was busy kissing at Marianne’s neck, and finds herself face to face with an angry looking man in his fifties. Thankfully they’re separated by a pane of glass, but it’s disturbing enough as it is.</p><p>Marianne’s neighbour raps at the glass once more, gesticulating wildly until they stumble to the side so he can open the door without them falling into the hallway.</p><p>“Desolée,” Marianne mumbles as the man stomps past them, spitting out a “sales lesbiennes” on his way.</p><p>Héloïse feels herself tensing in anger, stepping out on the street to see in which direction he goes. It takes until he vanishes at a bend so far away he’s hardly visible for her heartbeat to slow down and her shoulders to relax.</p><p>“You okay?” Marianne asks.</p><p>A deep breath, eyes closed to try and properly feel, and yes. She is okay. Just startled, and she tells Marianne as much.</p><p>“He’s always angry that one. No matter what, it wasn’t just because we’re girls.”</p><p>Héloïse nods, reaching for Marianne’s hand. Their fingers tangle with zero effort and it’s like cotton being wrapped around her soul. Feeling better, she backs Marianne up against the door again, leaning in slowly, pausing just before their lips would touch, then leans back, letting Marianne chase her. It’s silly, and wonderful, but the playfulness has nothing on the burning heat rushing through her when their lips actually meet again, all soft tongues and Héloïse’s hand a gentle hold at Marianne’s neck.</p><p>“Maybe we shouldn’t be standing here all night,” Héloïse murmurs an undefined amount of time later.</p><p>“Mm.”</p><p>Another kiss. A persistent hand sneaking under a jacket, another hand pushing it back. Then pause.</p><p>“Are you sober enough to walk home?” Marianne asks.</p><p>“Yeah..”</p><p>Héloïse tries to get rid of any disappointment in her voice. She knows it’s time to go. It’s late and as much as she would like to stay, making out against the door until the sun rises she knows it’s a bad idea.</p><p>Then, quiet but certain.</p><p>“Are you sober enough to come up?”</p><p>Marianne’s eyes are dark and serious, and Héloïse suddenly has her heart in her throat. She swallows before she croaks out a “yes”.</p><p>Without a word, Marianne turns around and punches in the code to the front door.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have no idea how something called a prologue ended up being 4000 words long, but whatever. Anyway, thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. the agony of electronic communication, part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>[Paris, Île-de-France, March 16 2020, 21:17]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>She’s gotten as far as typing out a draft of the message in a separate note on her phone, to make sure she doesn’t accidentally send a half-written text. She’s fretting over it – erasing, adding, weighing the different options of phrasing in her head, over and over. It’s pathetic. Which, really, only is the tip of the embarrassing iceberg she’s found herself stuck on.</p><p>She has had a messy couple of days.</p><p>Her struggle with words comes to an abrupt halt when her phone starts buzzing and blaring her least favourite personalized ringtone. She takes a deep breath and taps the green button.</p><p> </p><p>“Oui, allô? Yes, maman, I know.”</p><p>...</p><p>“It’s not even a five-hour drive, I’m not leaving tonight, I have stuff to take care of.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Fine, less than six, no we won't be speeding.”</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse can feel her brain sinking into the half-aware state it retreats to whenever her mother goes off about something. Autopilot, annoying parent edition.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.. yes.. No. No, mum. It’s a very small car.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Okay, but I have to go now, I gotta pack, and double check some stuff with my boss.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Yes. I will text you when we leave tomorrow morning.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Texting is perfectly fine.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Alright, alright, I will <em> call </em> you when we leave.”</p><p>...</p><p>“You know I could just help you get one of those apps that tracks my phone wherever I am, that might be easier.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Yes, that was a joke.”</p><p>...</p><p>“See you tomorrow. Unless the military stops us and we have to turn back.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Yes, that was also a joke.”</p><p>...</p><p>“Bye.”</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse lets out a noise somewhere between a groan and a very theatrical sigh and throws her phone across the living room, watching it bounce on the couch once, and land just on the edge of the seat. It balances precariously for a moment but doesn’t fall to the floor.</p><p>“She’s gonna drive you mad within a week,” Sophie says, giving Héloïse a concerned look.</p><p>“More like a day,” Héloïse mutters. “This is a bad idea. Are you sure you wanna come?”</p><p>“Anything is gonna be better than being stuck in an apartment in the city for god knows how long. Plus it is my car.”</p><p>“Even more reason for me to ask.”</p><p>There is a tiny part of Héloïse that wishes for Sophie to bail, and decide that spending at least a fortnight but probably longer cooped up in their flat here is better than ditching the city, but alas. They are leaving, and in doing so also confining themselves to the company of Héloïses mother for the foreseeable future. The joy.</p><p>“Did your friend reply by the way? About the plants?”</p><p>“Not yet,” Héloïse lies. It’s difficult for someone to <em> reply </em> to a text that hasn’t been sent yet. “I’ll text her again.”</p><p>To categorise the recipient of the not-yet-sent text as a “friend” is also a bit of a lie, if Héloïse is being honest with herself. But Sophie doesn’t need to know that.</p><p>She copies the draft to an actual message. This is gonna be awkward no matter what she writes.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Marianne</b>
</p><p>[vendredi 23:17]</p><p>
  <em> Hey, this is my number. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> /Marianne </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Héloïse</b>
</p><p>[vendredi 23:41]</p><p>
  <em> Hello. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[samedi 01:06]</p><p>
  <em> Heeeey, did you leave already? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We are heading to Antoine's place wanna join? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[samedi 01:09]</p><p>
  <em> Outside smoking. Wait for me? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[samedi 01:11]</p><p>
  <em> I got you rjacket too, be out in a sec. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[samedi 15:36]</p><p>
  <em> Hey, I hope the walk home wasn’t too exhausting. And thanks for yesterday/today, I had fun. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Do you maybe wanna grab a coffee sans gueule de bois sometime soon? </em>
</p><p>[lu samedi 16:03]</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>And that was two days ago.</p><p>The good things about the current state of things are the following:</p><p> </p><ol>
<li>Sophie has not figured out that the potential plant-sitter is the same person that was partly responsible for Héloïse getting home at 14:30 Saturday afternoon, still hungover and with a fresh hickey on her neck.</li>
</ol><p> </p><p>And that’s about it.</p><p>The bad thing is that Héloïse had been incapable of mustering enough courage to reply to the text from Marianne when she got it, and somehow still was dumb, no <em> idiotic </em>, enough to mention to her darling flatmate that she knows someone who lives within the magical kilometer radius from their apartment, and thus could maybe, possibly agree to tending to Sophie’s veritable jungle and Héloïses more reasonable collection of four potted plants, while the actual plant owners escapes to the countryside like the worst type of bourgeoise.</p><p>Which really only leaves Héloïse with one thing to do – to send a very odd text to her most recent hookup, and then wait and see if she will have any dignity left by the end of the day.</p><p>She presses send, then promptly puts her phone on her nightstand and goes to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, far away from the phone.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 21:29]</p><p><em> Hey! </em><br/><em> Thanks for the other night/day. Sorry I didn’t reply, I was feeling quite fragile all evening and then it slipped my mind.<br/>Are you gonna stay in Paris during the confinement? And if so, could you help me with a thing? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> /H </em></p><p> </p><p>Five minutes later and the tea is steeping when it slowly dawns on Héloïse what a disaster of a text message that was.</p><p>First of all, you don’t tell a hookup that you simply forgot to get back to them, because rude. Héloïse would like to think that she has enough of a backbone to at least not consciously ghost anyone, thank you very much. Also it wasn’t ghosting as much as second-guessing herself five thousand times.</p><p>Secondly – “could you help me with a thing?” Way to go, if the goal was to make it sound like you are a drug dealer, or in possession of a dead body that needs hiding, or something equally suspicious.</p><p>Héloïse stomps back to her bedroom, fishes the teabag out of the mug and angrily tosses it in the bin under the desk. Communication is not supposed to be this difficult. She works with words, for heaven’s sake. She takes a sip of the tea, burns the tip of her tongue, sets the mug on the desk and starts composing a second message.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 21:37]</p><p>
  <em> Hi again. Sorry for being so weird and unclear.<br/>The thing is that me and my flatmate are planning to leave Paris during the lockdown, but we have a lot of houseplants, and you are the only person either of us knows that lives within the one kilometer radius from our apartment.<br/>Would you consider watering them for us? Standard plant-sitting rates apply, of course. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She sends it right away, before she has any time to overthink it, and luckily before Marianne has replied to the first one, and then gets to work packing the things she might need for a spontaneous countryside vacation. Mid-March and an undefined amount of time spent away is a wonderful combination because the weather is hopelessly unpredictable. She has things left in the summer house since last year, so it’s not the risk of forgetting something important that is the problem. More the simple stress of leaving in a hurry.</p><p>She’s folding up the last pieces of underwear when she’s startled by the loud buzz of her phone. She doesn’t grab it right away, instead she finishes packing, and paces around the room for half a minute more before giving the device a reproachful glare and trudging over to her desk to pick it up. Just as she grabs it, it buzzes again. The thought of Marianne double-texting her is oddly comforting. But then again, this conversation could be going anywhere, from “are you dumb” to “of course I’ll help you” and Héloïse can’t make up her mind on which end of the spectrum she’d prefer.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>[lundi 22:03]</p><p>
  <em> Hey. I’m staying here during the confinement, yes. And I can take care of your plants, no problem.<br/>Gives me something to do besides working and catching up on my Netflix queue. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 22:05]</p><p>
  <em> You’re right, the first message was very bizarre. For a second I thought you needed me to help you hide a corpse or something. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A mix of relief and renewed stress washes over Héloïse. She starts tapping out a reply before she loses her nerve again.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>In the end, they meet on the street outside of Héloïse’s building. She did offer to bring the key to Marianne’s place, what with it being late in the evening and all, but Marianne had argued against, saying she needed to know where she was going anyway.</p><p>Héloïse spends a few minutes pacing on the sidewalk, jumping up and down the curb a couple of times just to do something, before she sees a tall figure in jeans and a grey hoodie rounding the corner three lamp posts up the street.</p><p>“Salut!” she says, accompanied with a small wave that makes her cringe inside, as Marianne approaches.</p><p>“Salut,” Marianne replies with a small nod.</p><p>Héloïse feels out of place. There’s the whole general oddity of asking someone she barely knows to take care of her houseplants because she’s escaping the city in the time of a worldwide pandemic.</p><p>Add to that the fact that the last time she saw the person in question was approximately 57 hours earlier and that encounter ended with a last-minute make-out session against Marianne’s apartment door just as Héloïse was about to leave, because Marianne had been looking particularly lovely in that moment, all messy hair and sleepy eyes with legs for days wearing only a ratty old t-shirt and underwear, and Héloïse just.. hadn’t been able to come up with any decent reason to not show proper appreciation to that loveliness. And that’s how she ended up walking home with a hickey.</p><p>And now, after <em> that </em> encounter followed by her own inept radio silence, Marianne is standing on the sidewalk, one and a half meters away, and Héloïse is not quite sure where to begin.</p><p>It’s hard to describe. It would have been strange no matter what, but the paranoia of the virus mixed with the uncertainty of seeing a hookup makes it almost too much to handle.</p><p>“I was gonna text you back,” she blurts out before Marianne has a chance to say anything else. “Aside from the plants, I mean. I was. I just didn’t know what to say.”</p><p>Marianne gives her a thoughtful look, tilting her head a tiny bit to the side but doesn’t say anything. It’s unnerving.</p><p>“I don’t want you to think that I was ignoring you,” Héloïse mumbles, kicking at some invisible gravel on the sidewalk. She feels like a teen somehow, and it’s not a pleasant feeling, but her <em> ability to adult </em>, as Sophie would call it, seems to have vanished all of a sudden.</p><p>Marianne still doesn’t say anything.</p><p>Héloïse goes quiet too.</p><p>Three cars and a cyclist pass on the street next to them before either of them makes a sound, and then it’s Marianne, who begins to laugh. More of a chuckle really, but then it grows to something slightly bigger. It’s strangely contagious, Héloïse can feel herself breaking into a smile too, and she does nothing to stop it, because somehow, seeing Marianne smile has that effect on her.</p><p>“It’s just so absurd, isn’t it? This whole situation. I mean, this would be a bit stiff no matter what,” Marianne says, gesturing between them and giving words to the jumbled thoughts in Héloïses head.</p><p>“But now it’s.. a week ago my main concern would have been how to greet you, period, because what is the proper way to greet someone you don’t know well at all, but have seen naked, when nothing about the nature of your relationship is specified?”</p><p>Héloïse can feel her face heating up the second Marianne says the word naked, and she curses her useless brain for picking this very second to send flashbacks of Saturday morning to the front of her conscience. She briefly loses track of what Marianne says, busy with other thoughts about her.</p><p>“..we shouldn’t even go near each other, because in the time passed between yesterday and now, either or both of us may have been infected by a virus, a virus that the president somehow has declared war upon. It’s just so.. dystopian. What comes next, The Hunger Games?”</p><p>Marianne  puts a hand over her eyes and shakes her head in disbelief, slowly dragging her fingers up and through her hair, chuckling to herself.</p><p>Héloïse has a sudden impulse of wanting to run her fingers through Marianne’s hair too. She remembers how nice it felt the last time she did it.</p><p>“I hope not,” she says after a pause, as an answer to Marianne’s rhetoric question about young adult dystopia.</p><p>“Huh? Hope not what?”</p><p>Marianne seems to have forgotten her own question right away.</p><p>“I hope the world doesn't end up being like The Hunger Games. If it ends in dystopia, I’d prefer a better source material than that one. It’s so US-centric it hurts.”</p><p>Marianne chuckles again. Héloïse tries to not think of how that specific sound is moving higher and higher up on her list of favourite sounds everytime she hears it.</p><p>“Okay, mademoiselle literature snob, what would be your dystopia of choice then? 1984?” Marianne counters.</p><p>“No. It’s too sad. I’ve never even read the last chapter because I realised how unhappy the ending would be.”</p><p>They go silent again, Marianne is slowly shifting her weight from one foot to the other and back again. She’s wearing sneakers that once upon a time must have been white. Not anymore. They do look very comfortable though.</p><p>Héloïse remembers why she came down in the first place, and digs out the spare key from her pocket, holding it out in front of Marianne.</p><p>“Here, um, maybe boil it or dip it in alcogel or something when you get home?” she says. Marianne smiles again as she takes the key, and honestly, could she not because everytime she does it and her eyes do that sparkling thing, Héloïse loses the plot. It’s frustrating. And lovely. Whatever.</p><p>“Sophie watered everything today, so if you drop by on Thursday of Friday? And, umm, let me know what you want for the trouble..”</p><p>“What is the going rate for plant-sitters anyway?” Marianne asks.</p><p>“Oh, I have no idea, it was just something I said, but I’ll pay, of course.”</p><p>Marianne does a little floppy wave with her hand in protest. “No, no, you don’t have to. Pay it forward, right?”</p><p>“But..” Héloïse searches for the right thing to say – she’s not sure how to phrase that it doesn’t feel entirely right to ask favours of someone you barely know.</p><p>“No, seriously I don’t want any pay. But..”</p><p>Marianne chews on her lower lip, like she’s making up her mind about something.</p><p>“Okay, what about this – when the confinement is over, take me out to dinner as thanks?”</p><p>She glances shyly at Héloïse, as if she’s not sure how she would react to the proposition.</p><p>As for Héloïse, she can picture it. Somewhere warmly lit, not fancy but <em> nice </em>. Red wine in shiny glasses, Marianne opposite her at a small table, small enough that if their legs brush every now and then it’s really the table’s fault as much as theirs. Only not really.</p><p>It scares her a little, how much she <em> wants </em> that, now that the idea of it has planted itself in her mind. To take Marianne out to dinner, to get to talk to her for hours over a good meal, to see how she would choose to dress for something completely unrelated to work. To walk home after, tipsy and not at all ready to say goodnight.</p><p>“Yeah, I can do that,” she says.</p><p>Marianne’s eyes light up again, and she kind of stretches herself a little bit taller.</p><p>“Okay,” she says, with a crooked little smirk.</p><p>“Okay,” Héloïse agrees.</p><p>Marianne takes a few steps backwards, like she knows she should get going but doesn’t actually want to. Then she does a tiny excuse of a wave, turns around and starts walking away like a normal person.</p><p>“Hey, Héloïse?” she calls out, looking back when she’s between the second and third streetlight.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“If it wasn’t for the virus I would have liked to kiss you goodnight. Just thought you should know."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“I told her to drop by in like three or four days, so your jungle is in safe hands,” Héloïse shouts once she’s back in the apartment.</p><p>“Ah, super,“ Sophie yells back from her bedroom.</p><p>“At least we don’t have to bother Monsieur Lagarde about it now,” Héloïse continues, mostly to herself, trying to bring her voice back to normal and out of the lighter tone she gets sometimes when she’s hyped up about things.</p><p>Monsieur Lagarde is the concierge of sorts, an old man who’s lived on the first floor since the end of the second world war. Héloïse knows this because he has told her. As lovely as Monsieur Lagarde can be, he has a tendency to trap people in long-winded conversations at unfortunate times. He was retired long before Héloïse moved in, but was never properly replaced and still offers to help the other tenants with various things. And since most of the people in the house are posh enough to have escaped to the countryside already, Monsieur Lagarde suddenly has a lot of thirsty plants on his hands. She should probably drop him a note though, to let him know that they’re leaving and that Marianne will drop by to check on the apartment every now and then. She opens their most chaotic kitchen drawer in search of a pen and a notepad.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[March 17 2020, 05:08]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>They roll out of Paris just after five in the morning, bleary eyed and yawning. Sophie takes the first turn driving, and Héloïse is in charge of supplying coffee, snacks and music, which doesn’t entail much seeing as the old Clio doesn’t even have an aux cord. She skips through radio stations, eventually settling on France Bleu, simply because it does local traffic updates. There is not much music to be had on any frequency anyway, it’s all just a steady stream of <em> le virus </em> and various opinionated takes on the <em> nous sommes en guerre </em>-rhetoric from last night.</p><p>Biological warfare in reverse, she thinks. The earth has had enough. She knows that’s an unreasonable thought, but entertains it anyway.</p><p>They stop for gas and to switch drivers once they’re past Le Mans. Just gas, card payment, Héloïse rubbing her hands with alcogel after putting back the pump handle. The alcogel and the early departure time are not the only differences from when they did this exact same trip last summer. There's also the general vibe of things. The changes have been creeping up on them for the last couple of weeks – the obsessive hand washing, the uncertain news reports from the few clusters that appeared early on, older coworkers suddenly not enforcing <em> la bise </em> as a greeting anymore, the fleeting “what if” everytime someone coughs on the Métro or in Carrefour.</p><p>“Ugh, you’re a midget,” Héloïse grumbles as she struggles to get into the driver’s seat before pulling it back enough to be able to stretch out her legs.</p><p>“Space efficient,” Sophie replies in a sleepy tone, fussing with making a nest of sorts for herself in the passenger seat. There’s a pillow involved, and a blanket and both of their jackets.</p><p>Héloïse starts the car again and impatiently forces the tiny engine to reach decent autoroute speed.</p><p>The sun has come up properly now, eating away at the morning mist on the rolling fields of eastern France. The radio drones on about the confinement, and Héloïse does some quick maths in her head. Even if there would be delays en route, they should have more than enough time to make their destination before noon. She likes driving, going places has always calmed her, and the kilometers pass by quickly.</p><p>Sophie is dozing off in her nest in the passenger seat, or so Héloïse thinks until “You hooked up with the plant-sitter, didn’t you?” almost makes her jump despite being belted to her seat.</p><p>“Putain, Sophie, you scared me! I thought you were asleep.”</p><p>“I woke up,” Sophie yawns.</p><p>“Good morning,” Héloïse says, hoping that Sophie will drop the topic at hand and just go back to sleep.</p><p>Of course she has no such luck.</p><p>“You hooked up with the plant-sitter.”</p><p>Not a question this time. She employs a new tactic: ignore Sophie completely. That works for approximately a minute.</p><p>“You know, the silence really says a lot.”</p><p>“Mhm, does it?” Héloïse tries to be as unengaging as humanly possible.</p><p>“Duh, I know you. The less willing you are to talk about things, the more you actually care. You’re like a human embodiment of that Jane Austen quote. Last time you came stumbling home after sleeping god knows where you went on about it like you were some lycée fuckboy. Now you won’t say a word.”</p><p>Héloïse wants to protest, because she has never acted like a fuckboy in her life, thank you very much, but jams her mouth shut. This bait will not be taken.</p><p>Sophie shuffles around in her nest again, presumably biding her time. She’s too perceptive for her own damn good, Héloïse thinks.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It takes five minutes of mind numbingly boring autoroute and someone on the radio babbling about face-mask shortages before she caves.</p><p>“So, what if I did hook up with the plant-sitter?” Héloïse says. No preamble, and more of a question than a confession.</p><p>Sophie uncurls immediately and sits up straight for the first time since they swapped drivers.</p><p>“Ha! I knew it!”</p><p>“Yes, congratulations, you get this month’s award for nosiest flatmate.”</p><p>“Oh thank you, what do I win?”</p><p>“A forced vacation to Bretagne, off season.”</p><p>Sophie sighs and grumbles “You’re no fun. Seriously. Isn’t getting laid supposed to make people cheery? You did not get that memo, huh?”</p><p>Héloïse decides to not answer that, and Sophie picks up her phone for entertainment instead.</p><p>Another five minutes or so passes before Héloïse speaks again.</p><p>“How could you tell?”</p><p>“How, what? Oh, how I knew you slept with the plant-sitter?”</p><p>Héloïse nods.</p><p>“Well, I knew you got with someone, because let’s be real, you don’t normally come home from Friday evening drinks at three in the afternoon on a Saturday, wearing a borrowed sweater. Nice hickey by the way.”</p><p>Sophie holds out her hand to make sure that the thumbs up she’s doing is in Héloïses field of view, and Héloïse scratches her neck and stares even harder at the road ahead.</p><p>“And then you all of a sudden have a “friend” living nearby, a “friend” that you’ve never mentioned before,” she pointedly air-quotes the word friend which makes Héloïse frown and roll her eyes, “and honestly I just went with the feeling I got. You’ve been a bit spazzy the last week or so, I figured something was up.”</p><p>“Spazzy, pfft. I’m not spazzy.”</p><p>“You are though, sometimes. Especially when you start to care about stuff and haven’t quite accepted it yet.”</p><p>“I do not care about the plant-sitter!”</p><p>Sophie just smiles, Héloïse doesn’t even have to take her eyes off the road to see the smirk, she knows it’s there.</p><p>“By the way, does the plant-sitter happen to have a name? I think I should know the name of this random person who has our spare keys for the foreseeable future.”</p><p>Héloïse lets out an indignant puff of air and again refuses to acknowledge both Sophie’s staring and her general existence.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>They arrive at the summer house a little before 11 o'clock. The sky is overcast, and the leaves on the trees haven't quite sprung yet. It’s a gloomy sight. Héloïse’s mother is doing some kind of gardening in one of the flower patches out front, and the second Héloïse spots her, she realises that she forgot to text her mother before they left in the morning. Great. She’s gonna go straight in the doghouse for being bad at communicating.</p><p>She parks next to her mother’s SUV, and they step out on the gravel-covered driveway.</p><p>“Ah, girls, welcome!”</p><p>Héloïse flinches and backs away when her mother walks over to welcome them, arms wide open.</p><p>“Maman, serieux? Don’t hug me! What if one of us has the virus? We were in Paris until this morning, and no one there has given a crap about keeping distance until now.”</p><p>Her mother lets out an indignant huff at the same time as Sophie says “I think Héloïse has a point. We should probably keep a bit of a distance over the next few days. Just to make sure. And thanks for letting us stay here, it would be hard to remain in the city.”</p><p>“We can do that elbow tap greeting,” Héloïse grins in a poor attempt to distract from how well-mannered Sophie is compared to her. Her mother gives her a stare as if to say “are you twelve,” which only serves to make Héloïse more smug.</p><p>A couple of tours between the car and the kitchen with bags of perishables later, Héloïse feels the sleep deprivation and the long car journey kick in. Sophie is already en route to the upstairs guest room, and Héloise grabs her duffel bag and backpack and retreats to her own, a small space, wall-to-wall with the garage that once upon a time served as a home office. It’s facing the back garden, and she claimed it as her room when she was a teenager, because of its excellent “sneak-out-whenever”-possibilities, if leaving a room that has its own entrance even counts as sneaking out. Regardless, it had taken her mother a surprisingly long while to discover why exactly fourteen-year-old Héloïse had been so adamant about staying on the ground floor.</p><p>The air is kind of stale and chilly, the door has most likely been shut since Héloïse last closed it, but she is unbothered, walking straight to her bed and falling face-first onto it. Dust particles fly up in the air around her, and after a minute of doing nothing at all, she crawls out of bed with a groan and opens the double glass doors to the garden, grabbing her duvet and hanging it over the nearest fence.</p><p>Once Héloïse has unpacked her things, she retrieves the freshened bed linen to re-make her bed. Then she has to lie down on it again for a bit, just to check that the dust is properly gone. She can hear the faint noises of Sophie rummaging around upstairs, and the rustle of the breeze in the tree branches outside. The sun has almost broken through the clouds now. As far as pandemics go, she is definitely part of the one percent she thinks.</p><p>Her tummy rumbles, and she gets up to go raid the fridge. As she grabs her phone from the desk in the corner she decides that it’s time to text Marianne. It feels like a polite thing to do, somehow, letting the plant-sitter know that the plant owners have arrived safely at their hideout.</p><p>She gets a thumbs up in return.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Et voilá, elles sont confinées.</p><p>Hope y'all like it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. the sentient printer from hell</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, March 18 2020, 06:34]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The steady rhythm of her feet against the tarmac is soothing, as is the smell of salt in the air. Her shadow is a weak blur in front of her, the sun has not quite yet risen above the fields to the east. She’s running into the wind, right at the sea. The open sea, not the bay on the lee side of the needle-shaped peninsula south of the village.</p><p>She just needs to be near the ocean for a little while. Maybe that will quell the unease she has felt since they left Paris yesterday. She’s tired, agitated, unfocused and overly emotional at the same time.</p><p>Half a minute later it hits her.</p><p>Fucking pms.</p><p>Aside from being an emotional hormonal wreck, everything about being confined has gone surprisingly well so far. They ate dinner together last night, the three of them, and her mother had been perfectly agreeable even though she frowned at both Héloïse and Sophie for eating tacos with their hands. As if there was any other way to do it. They had come to an agreement – their days would be free to schedule as they want, except for having dinner together at seven every evening, taking turns to cook.</p><p>Low on ambition but very hungry, and eager to get kitchen duties out of the way for a couple of days, Héloïse had thus raided the cupboards for all the taco ingredients they had brought with them from Paris, chopped up veggies and cooked the minced meat in record speed, and less than half an hour later, there had been dinner with a side lecture on table manners. All in all not a bad ending of a very long day.</p><p>Héloïse runs along the beach for about a kilometer and a half, letting the breaking waves chase her sideways as she goes, before turning inland again. The low sun keeps her half blind all the way back to the house.</p><p>Sophie is already in the kitchen with her laptop and a large bowl of some kind of granola in front of her on the table when Héloïse enters, panting, making a beeline for the tap, not even bothering with a glass.</p><p>“Ça va?”</p><p>“Oui,” Sophie answers between mouthfuls.</p><p>“You got any lectures today?”</p><p>“Nah, just a lot of reading. I’m gonna try to get it done quick so I can spend some time outdoors later. It’s not supposed to rain all day.”</p><p>“You are sure you weren’t some kind of dryad or garden gnome in a past life?”</p><p>“No, I might have been. I dunno, I just like plants. And the garden here is lovely.”</p><p>“Please don’t be too nice though,” Héloïse sighs. “I think my mother might want to swap us already.”</p><p>“Hah, I’ll try,” Sophie chuckles. “What about you, lots of work?”</p><p>“Not too bad, we have a meeting online at nine, then depending on what happens in that, I might do some stuff with the website, and I need to get caught up on some manuscripts.”</p><p>Héloïse stuffs four slices of bread in the toaster and gets to work scrambling eggs.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Being a devoted disciple of the religion “most meetings could and should be emails” Héloïse participates in the office-wide zoom morning meeting at nine o’clock with a mix of aggressive disinterest and also treating it as a study in post/metamodernistic anthropology.</p><p>It takes half an hour, then everything that needs to be said has been said, people can technically start logging off and get going with their respective tasks, but it’s as if everybody’s clinging to the video chat as some kind of life line. A digital mirage of a normal Wednesday at the office.</p><p>And of course it comes up. It might be mid-week already, but with all the stress surrounding the confinement and several people deciding to leave Paris, no one has really had the time or brain capacity to small talk until now, when it apparently comes back in full force. Once it begins it’s a fast downward spiral, at least according to Héloïse. She’s half-listening, trying to cut in to excuse herself while debating whether or not she can get away with at least putting the conversation on mute.</p><p>Then Naïma asks how everybodys’ weekends has been, because she is that kind of person and she might actually genuinely care, so Laure inevitably has to mention that a few of you kept going long after the regular drinks after work last Friday had faded, and then. Christophe. The fucking blabbermouth.</p><p>“Oh, speaking of – Héloïse, how was your Saturday? Cosy? And how was your head?”</p><p>She wants to punch his smirking face into another dimension, but the only harm that would do in the current situation is to the laptop and possibly her own knuckles, sadly.</p><p>“Fine, thank you. And how was <em> your </em> head? Héloïse retorts. “Last time I saw you, you were passed out on Antoine’s couch with a half eaten slice of pizza in your hand.”</p><p>If Christophe wants to gossip, she’ll give him gossip.</p><p>“Guys..” Antoine tries.</p><p>Naïma is putting a slightly pixelated hand on her forehead, undoubtedly regretting bringing up a topic that would see Héloïse and Christophe butt heads. In her defense, it is sometimes hard to tell what those topics might be before it’s too late.</p><p>“Well, the last time I saw you, you were sitting on the other couch with a certain dark-haired freelancer on your lap, looking awfully cosy, so I think it’s safe to say that whatever happened after that, your weekend was better than mine,” Christophe counters, somehow dragging both her and himself at the same time.</p><p>“Lovely. I’m glad to hear that you had an eventful after-after work,” Naïma cuts in before Héloïse has a chance to gather her thoughts again. Or télé-murder Christophe. “Let’s meet up again tomorrow, nine fifteen good with everyone?”</p><p>A chorus of yes-es and nods are emitted from the gridded videos on screen.</p><p>“Good, have a nice day, and I’ll be available until 18 or so. Antoine, can you get back to me with the contract updates after lunch please?”</p><p>Héloïse says goodbye and shuts down the call, dragging her hand over her face with a groan.</p><p>Great. Fantastic. Fucking Christophe. Of course gossip travels fast, but she had somehow hoped that even that idiot would have had the decency to not bring it up while on an office-wide video conference.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She debates texting Marianne to tell her that they might have become the latest item in the office gossip mill, thanks to Christophe being an indiscrete dickhead, but she gets stuck on the use of the word “we” because it’s a terrifying two-letter combination all of a sudden, and the single thumb up that Marianne sent yesterday is there on the screen, indicating no interest whatsoever in keeping up a conversation so whatever she tried to type gets abruptly deleted and her phone is tossed to the side.</p><p>Instead, Héloïse spends a few hours sitting in a sheltered corner of the patio reading through the final draft of a manuscript, eats a bowl of noodles for lunch before taking fifteen frustrating minutes to try and curate a “confinement essential readings”-post for the work Facebook page. All she wants to put on it is her childhood comfort reads, which feels very cosy but also very inadequate, not to mention that none of those books has ever been published by her workplace.</p><p>“Now is the time to enlighten ourselves”, Alice, the in-house translator, had said during the meeting earlier. Héloïse is currently more into the thought of actually setting something on fire than abstract enlightenment. A vague headache that appeared after her run in the morning is stubbornly refusing to go away, which is decidedly unhelpful. After coming up with three books, chugging a glass of water and typing out a whiny text to Antoine, she gives up on the list and goes back to the manuscript, armed with a highlighter and a foul mood.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Her peace and quiet comes to an abrupt end a little after two in the afternoon.</p><p>“Héloïse!”</p><p>It’s her mother shouting, and her first instinct is thinking <em> what did I do, </em>and then she remembers that she’s not sixteen anymore, and that aside from serving tacos for dinner yesterday she hasn’t really done anything that could possibly annoy her mother since arriving in Bretagne.</p><p>“What?!” she shouts back, potentially adding an item of annoyance to the list, but she’ll be damned if she moves from her comfortable spot on the garden sofa for some as-of-yet unspecified reason.</p><p>Her mother comes sweeping around the corner of the house, a frustrated look on her face, and a tiny twig of some sort stuck in her hair – Héloïse assumes it’s a leftover from earlier gardening.</p><p>“I need your help.”</p><p>“Mh.”</p><p>“I’m going for a walk, and that <em> thing </em>,” she says “thing” with a tone of utter contempt, “just makes strange noises and blinks at me.”</p><p>The <em> thing </em> – Héloïse takes a wild guess that it’s the printer, and following her mother into the home office her suspicion proves true – is indeed both blinking and making low, churning noises. Héloïse makes a dissatisfied noise in return.</p><p>“Well?” her mother looks at her impatiently “Can you fix it?”</p><p>“Eh, probably. Maybe there’s a paper stuck in it.”</p><p>“Very well then, will it be quick?”</p><p>“Why are you in a hurry? It’s confinement, you don’t have any appointments whatsoever.”</p><p>At that, her mother talks very quickly about how she and her friend Angélique always takes walks at the same time of day, four days a week, and if they so happen to be walking in the same direction at the same time today as well – safely distanced of course – then they wouldn’t technically be doing anything illegal. Just walking, incidentally.</p><p>Héloïse is surprisingly touched by her mother’s willingness to break rules to see a friend, but she pushes that thought to the side and opens the paper tray of the printer.</p><p>“Can’t you just text Angeline-”</p><p>“Angélique.”</p><p>“-text Angélique and tell her you will be leaving a little late?”</p><p>Her mother lets out a gasp of horror. Héloïse rolls her eyes at the drama.</p><p>“Of course not! What if the gendarmes stop us and find proof of us coordinating our walks?”</p><p>“Okay, I see. So coordinating walks is alright as long as there is no proof of you doing it.”</p><p>“Yes, exactly. Now, I have to leave in fifteen minutes, can you make it work or not?”</p><p>“Fifteen minutes? Maman, you cannot let the printer know that you are in a hurry. It can sense stress, it’s like a small, yappy dog.”</p><p>“Héloïse, it’s an inanimate thing, it senses nothing.”</p><p>“Do you want me to help you so your walk won’t be entirely illegal, or not?”</p><p>Thirteen minutes later, after banishing her mother to the garden, ripping out a dislodged paper from the tray, and downloading some kind of device drivers to her own laptop to even be able to communicate with the darn printer, Héloïse is glaring at the little machine from hell when it loudly starts churning out attestations.</p><p>“Maman, your paperwork is done!”</p><p>“Ah, excellent,” her mother sweeps back into the room and gets to work filling out the form. Thirty seconds later she’s power walking down the driveway in her obnoxious puffy vest and sky blue sneakers, leaving a small cloud of dust in her wake.</p><p>“This is so useless,” Héloïse mutters to herself. “Save the trees, eat a beaver.”</p><p>Her headache seems to be going nowhere, and she shuffles back to the kitchen for her third cup of tea of the day.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, March 19 2020, 07:56]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>On Thursday morning, Héloïse wakes to sunshine, birds tweeting, and an uncomfortable ache in her entire body. She texts Naïma at 8 o’clock sharp, tells her she’s feeling like absolute garbage, and gets a sympathetic message back. It includes a recipe for ginger tea, and the wonderful sentence “you can skip out on today’s zoom meeting, just keep me updated on whether you have the energy to work, and if so how much”.</p><p>She trudges out to the kitchen, which is conspicuously empty. It’s very uncommon that Héloïse is up before Sophie, who takes the concept of being a morning person to levels previously unknown even to Héloïse.</p><p>She is halfway through her toast and halfway through today’s edition of Libé when Sophie comes hobbling down the stairs. She looks about as energetic as Héloïse feels.</p><p>“You too?” Sophie asks.</p><p>“Yeah, I feel like shit.”</p><p>“We should tell your mum.”</p><p>Héloïse hadn’t even thought of that but Sophie has a point. She leaves her toast and her newspaper and goes on a search for her mother. She’s easily found, digging away in a flowerbed next to a large oak by the annex.</p><p>“Ah, good morning!”</p><p>“Mm, yeah, not so good morning,” Héloïse corrects.</p><p>“Oh, how come?”</p><p>“Well, I feel like absolute shit, and Sophie is doing about the same.”</p><p>“Language, Héloïse,” her mother says before registering what she actually said. A second later she has transformed into Mum Mode™, which Héloïse finds absolutely terrifying.</p><p>“Maman, calm down, I just have a fever and a sore throat. I’m not even coughing.”</p><p>“Have you taken your temperature?”</p><p>“No, but I can feel that I have a fever. My body hurts and I’m sweating and out of breath from doing nothing.”</p><p>“Nonsense, come along now..” her mother walks off in the direction of the house and the medical shelf in the supply closet, Héloïse reluctantly following a few metres behind.</p><p>“Maman, the point is not for you to coddle me, the point is how you can avoid to-”</p><p>The rest goes unsaid as her mother stares her down until she takes the thermometer held out before her and shoves it in her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Two minutes later.. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“See, 38,7. No, don’t touch the thermometer!”</p><p>Héloïse snatches the plastic stick out of reach from her mother, holding it up close enough that she can see the number on the small digital display. Her mother squinting at the little device would make her laugh if she had a bit more energy.</p><p>“Now can you please just.. keep your distance, okay? It’s bad enough that Sophie and I are ill, no need for you to get it too. You’re almost of risk group age to begin with.”</p><p>Her mother scoffs at that, but stays out of arm’s reach all the same.</p><p>“So what do you propose we do about the situation?”</p><p>“Well, we need to stay away from you as much as possible, and make sure you don’t touch things we touch. If we stay in our rooms most of the time, and clean any surfaces in the kitchen if Sophie or I have been there..”</p><p>Héloïse goes silent, trying to figure out the logistics of her scrubbing away germs while being the source of said germs.</p><p>“You know what. It might just be easier if I move into the annex for a while,” her mother says.</p><p>It makes perfect sense, of course, but Héloïse feels a little bad at that being the best solution.</p><p>“No, that would feel like we’re kicking you out of your own house. We can move over there instead.”</p><p>“Nonsense. I’m only one person, and also not ill as of yet. It’s much less bothersome for me.”</p><p>Héloïse squirms, but standing up and talking is quite an effort today. The thought of packing her stuff again, then hauling it across the driveway and settling into a new space might as well be climbing Mont Blanc. Doable, but very, very exhausting.</p><p>“Now, let’s get you some Doliprane and some rest, you look like you’re about to fall down.”</p><p>Héloïse doesn’t even have enough energy in her to come up with a snarky comment about the rare occurrence of her mother being right about something, she just takes the painkillers and chugs them with a pint of water.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The silence that descends on the house once Héloïse’s mother has moved her essential belongings and herself over to the annex is deafening, only interrupted by Sophie coughing every now and then. They’ve taken up residence on separate ends of the massive L-shaped couch in the living room, trying to study and work, respectively, but Héloïse keeps dozing off and gets next to nothing done. She texts Naïma again and falls asleep before any reply.</p><p>Sometime in the afternoon her stomach grumbles enough that she hunts down some cereal. It’s still sunny outside, and she takes a blanket and pillow and relocates her dozing to one of the deck chairs on the patio. Some daylight can’t hurt. Sophie joins her eventually, and they have a fairly depressing conversation that mostly consists of comparing symptoms and wondering whether they have Covid or not.</p><p>Her mother comes over late in the afternoon, just as the patio is about to lose its sun, carrying a stack of tupperwares. Héloïse gets a bit teary at the sight of roast chicken, rice and veg, and silently vows to try and butt heads with her mother a bit less over the coming week-and-a-half. They may disagree about a lot of things, but right now she can’t deny that it’s nice to have her nearby.</p><p>That point is made even more clear as Sophie agonises about whether to tell her family that she’s gotten ill.</p><p>“It’s unnecessary,” she settles on eventually. “It might just be a regular flu, and I’m not like, seriously ill. Just tired and sleepy and coughing a bit.”</p><p>Héloïse doesn’t know Sophie’s family well enough to be able to add much valuable input, but she does agree that it’s unnecessary to make them worry when they’re in the other end of the country and can’t do anything about it. After all, she hasn’t even thought about telling her dad, who incidentally lives quite close to Sophie’s home village in northern Provence.</p><p>“Give it a day or two,” Héloïse tells her. “As long as you keep to texting they won’t know you have a cough either.”</p><p>“True. If my mother calls me I’m toast though. She’s eerily perceptive,” Sophie sighs.</p><p>“I think that might run in the family,” Héloïse mutters.</p><p>Sophie laughs at that, then stops abruptly to keep from coughing.</p><p>“Heard anything from plant-girl?” she asks once she’s regained her breath.</p><p>“Nah, nothing. I guess she might text me once she’s been around the apartment. Why?”</p><p>Héloïse tries to sound casual, tries to not think about the lone thumb up in her messages and how she hasn’t heard a word from Marianne in the two days since.</p><p>“Just wondering.”</p><p>“She’ll get back to me eventually. I’ll let you know when she does.”</p><p>“I miss my plants,” Sophie sighs, her voice very small all of a sudden.</p><p>“I’m sure they miss you too,” Héloïse says, trying to sound comforting but Sophie just looks even more sad.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Héloïse is lying in bed, half asleep to an episode of Grey’s Anatomy on her laptop when her phone buzzes.</p><p>There’s a happy little jolt in her stomach when she sees Marianne’s name on the screen and she tries to not think too much about it as she unlocks her phone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Marianne</b>
</p><p>[jeudi 22:03]</p><p>
  <em> Hey, just wanted to let you know that all the plants are still alive. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Before Héloïse can reply, a second message comes through.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How’s Bretagne by the way? Paris is boring. Being stuck indoors is a lot more fun when it’s your own decision to be a vegetable, not the gouvernement’s. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Héloïse</b>
</p><p>[jeudi 22:04]</p><p>
  <em> Oh, great! Sophie will be delighted to know that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Bretagne is.. alright. Windy. Had a duel with the printer yesterday, that I won. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oooh, printing attestations? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I had to handwrite one. I don’t have a printer. Not one that works anyway. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Aren’t you supposed to be an illustrator? Don’t you need to be able to print stuff then? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well yes, but I usually go to a print shop. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Do you know that meme, I have a permit? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse is good, even great at many things. Keeping track of internet vernacular is not one of them.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No, I don’t think so. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well, basically, it’s a character in a tv show who tells another person “don’t worry, I have a permit”, and shows them a paper that just says “I can do what I want”. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Handwriting your own attestation felt a bit like that. I could probably get away with a drawing on a napkin. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I went running yesterday morning, I didn’t even bring an ID, and I forgot the stupid paper. And I went way past the one kilometer radius. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re living on the edge, you rascal. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Always. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse can feel the conversation losing speed, and she doesn’t like it in the slightest. She stares at the ceiling, trying to come up with something to say. In the end she settles on sending a photo she snapped at the beach yesterday morning.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [DSC001770.jpg] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Voilà, la mer. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Now you’re just showing off. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Me? No. I am very humble. Also it’s not like it’s _my_ beach, I just run on it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So you like the sea then? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Somehow this feels like an important piece of knowledge.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I like it and I’m scared of it all the same. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Open water is very.. vast. Does that make sense? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think so. It’s uncontrollable. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Exactly. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Where in Bretagne are you? I don’t know if I asked. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Just north of Quiberon. My family’s had a place here for generations. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My mother turned the barn next to the main building into a holiday let a few years ago. So that’s her main thing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That, and annoying me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’ve never been to Morbihan. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse is on the verge of typing something along the lines of “you should go here sometime” when a second message pops up.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wait, isn’t that right where there’s a cluster? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Umm, yeah, it is, but that’s not in this commune. It’s to the east of where I am. And it’s not like I’m hanging out with anyone aside from Sophie and my mother anyway. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But still. Be careful, okay. I’d hate for you to get ill. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It might be too late for that, Héloïse thinks. She knows she should tell Marianne that she’s feeling unwell, so that she’s aware she might have it too, but she puts it off. Not yet. Make sure first. It might just be a regular cold, or pms. Maybe tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m always careful. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Okay that is a lie but I promise I’ll wash my hands and do my best to not get coughed on. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Good. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Um, I’m going to sleep now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was nice talking to you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sweet dreams, Héloïse. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You too. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She swallows another paracetamol and goes to brush her teeth, her brain repeating the words “please let me feel better tomorrow” over and over and over.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hepp. Lemme know what y'all think. :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. time feels fuzzy when you have a fever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, March 20 2020, 10:07]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse does not feel better the next day.</p><p>She feels worse.</p><p>She has to tell Marianne.</p><p>Is this how people who get STD’s feel when they have to inform the people they’ve hooked up with?</p><p>And Marianne texts before Héloïse has gathered enough courage to tell her, because of course she does, and Héloïse reads it right away. Then she promptly realizes that her eagerness efficiently eliminated any time she could have used to mull over what to say to Marianne. She already left her on read once, which was both pathetic and the opposite of what she actually wanted to do. Héloïse is determined to not repeat <em> that </em> again anytime soon.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Marianne</b>
</p><p>[vendredi 10:11]</p><p>
  <em> Hey, how’s your day going? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Just rip the bandaid off, Héloïse tells herself. There’s no other good way to do it. Gotta be responsible with ongoing global pandemics and whatnot.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Héloïse</b>
</p><p>[vendredi 10:14]</p><p>
  <em> It’s honestly not going great. I was just about to text you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I have a fever and I feel like general shit. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So maybe keep away from people for a while, in case you may have it too. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I mean I don’t know if I have _it_ but this doesn’t feel like a regular cold. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m sorry. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh no. :( </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m so sorry to hear that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But don’t worry about me, I feel normal. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And it’s not like I’m seeing any people at all. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I could probably make it another week without going to the supermarket. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That’s good. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Actually that’s not true, because I will run out of chocolate, and that cannot happen. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But if I hadn’t been eating a lot of sweets I could have. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m totally with you on the chocolate though. Gotta have it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah, I don’t get the whole toilet paper and pasta panic, I would panic more if I ran out of chocolate. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Would you? Really? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Um. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> All the chocolate in the world couldn’t help you if you were in a bathroom with no paper. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A minute and a half of silence passes before Marianne replies, during which Héloïse has enough time to give herself a stern talking to for taking the topic to poo-adjacent territories.</p><p> </p><p>[vendredi 10:21]</p><p>
  <em> Okay fine, you have a point, but I still don’t get the whole hamster behaviour. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Me either, I mean, staying at home only applies to people who _can_ work from home I think. And people whose jobs have shut down.<br/>
Pretty sure toilet paper factory workers still have to do their thing, they are quite essential after all.<br/>
Even perfume factories are still running, only they’re making hand sanitizer instead of perfume now. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Booze factories too. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s gonna be fun when those hand gels hit the market. You can pick a scent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Chartreuse, or pastis, or tequila. Or Chanel no5. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fingers crossed I never have to use hand gel that smells like tequila. I can’t stand that stuff. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Me either. Worst alcohol ever. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Maybe they won’t label them and it will be like those jelly beans in Harry Potter.<br/>
You won’t know beforehand if the content of the bottle will smell like pastis or perfume. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Evil. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Very. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>They keep texting for quite some time, about everything and nothing. It feels like a phone call almost, with the rapid back and forth, but typing instead of talking. Eventually Héloïse excuses herself on account of her rumbling tummy. She’s heard Sophie coughing through the walls, and tells Marianne she’ll go be a good confinement buddy and make them both some breakfast-lunch-brunch-whatever.</p><p> </p><p>[vendredi 11:53]</p><p>
  <em> Breakfast? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You skipped breakfast?! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Héloïse. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[vendredi 11:53]</p><p>
  <em> Yes? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You shouldn’t skip meals! That will definitely not help you get better. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Is this the universe compensating for my mum having moved across the driveway and out of sufficient nagging radius? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sorry, that sounded more fun in my head than in actual text. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You have a point. I will eat. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Good. And I didn’t mean to nag. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m just concerned. You’re the first one I know of to get ill. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m not even sure this counts. It’s just a shit headache and zero energy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Gotta go feed Sophie though, she got the short end of the stick, with the cough. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What are you making? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No idea to be honest. Depends on whether Soph wants brunch food or actual food.<br/>
I’m gonna let her pick. Kinda hoping for actual food though. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re a good coloc. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I try. Sometimes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Other times I’m “an annoying, pretentious shit”, Sophie’s words. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m sure that’s not true. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anyways, I’ll shut up now. Go feed yourself. Scoot. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I will. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The checkmark turns blue before Héloïse has let go of her phone, but despite reading the last message, Marianne seems to be making good on her word of shutting up. Héloïse wants to tell her that she liked talking to her, and that it made her forget about feeling like crap for a while, but she can’t come up with a neat way to say it without sounding like a loon. Then her stomach rumbles again, and she untangles herself from her duvet to go do something about that.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[March 21 2020, 20:36]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse knows it’s only been five days since confinement began, but it feels like a lot more. Like multiple weeks. Months even, if she’s being dramatic. The last couple of days have been blending into each other, made worse by the fact that her sleeping a lot during the day makes sleeping in the night a struggle. She does a daily check-in with work, but she’s still feverish and tired, and the others insist that she should rest.</p><p>They may have a point, she can barely stay awake while watching tv-shows or reading for fun, let alone while reading work things. And today is Saturday, apparently, which she only found out about <em> after </em> emailing Antoine in a sad attempt at being productive, and got his “I don’t work during the weekends, here’s a book rec for you, I’ll get back to you on monday”-autoreply.</p><p>The one highlight of the day comes after dinner, when Héloïse has retired to her bed, snacks and painkillers within reaching distance.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Marianne</b>
</p><p>[samedi 20:37]</p><p>
  <em> I think I met your landlord today? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Cute old man with fluffy hair wearing a cardigan that looks very comfy and also a little too large? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Héloïse</b>
</p><p>[samedi 20:38]</p><p>
  <em> Oh, yes. Monsieur Lagarde. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He’s not our landlord though, he just.. he was the concierge like decades ago but sort of never properly retired. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He talks a lot. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah, sorry I should have warned you. I hope he didn’t delay you too badly. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No no, he’s adorable. And I wasn’t busy. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> We talked about plants. Seems like he’s plant-sitting almost all the other apartments in your house.<br/>
Is there anyone left? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think there are a couple on the first floor who are staying put, and Madame Grellier on the third.<br/>
But most people in our building are posh, and posh people are contractually required to escape to the countryside when things get rough.<br/>
It’s written in the handbook you get if you amass more than a million euros in one single bank account. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m pretty sure you’re just making that up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh yes. The handbook bit. Not the escaping to the countryside bit, that part is very true. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (I am ashamed of myself for adhering to the bourgeoisie lifestyle.) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How are you doing by the way, any better? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No, everything just feels bleak and I’m constantly exhausted for no good reason.<br/>
But the weather has been nice, so I sat outside for a while earlier.<br/>
And I think Sophie’s coughing less today. Or maybe I just got used to hearing it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> How are you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m alright. Not feeling ill in the slightest so don’t worry about that. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Just bored. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It was nice talking to Monsieur Lagarde actually, I haven’t had a real IRL conversation with anyone all week.<br/>
Just, you know, polite phrases to the supermarket cashier and stuff. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It must suck. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Not that Sophie and I hang out much at the moment, but at least she’s around.<br/>
As is my mum, but from a few meters distance and only outdoors. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s not ideal. But at least I’m catching up on a lot of tv-shows. And I have gotten a lot of work done.<br/>
When you feel better I’ll send you some drafts. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Send me now! I want to see! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No, you’re ill, you’re not working. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Plus it’s saturday. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Meh. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’ll be a treat once you’re better. Something to look forward to. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Show me the trees now! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Patience, Héloïse. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Not my most distinctive personality trait. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> To those who wait, good things will come. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Okay, okay I get it, Yoda. </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[March 22 2020, 15:43]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse spends the entire sixth day of confinement balled up on the living room sofa, half conscious and feeling very sorry for herself as Sophie binges Tiger King while mainlining mint tea and trying to keep the cough at bay.</p><p>“Soph, if I take an Ibuprofen and die, will you make sure that I’m cremated and not buried as a whole? I don’t want the worms to eat me. Preferably, I would like my ashes to be spread out somewhere else than in a graveyard. On a beach, perhaps, or in a nice forest glen.”</p><p>“Can you stop being so dramatic? You’re not dying and you’re not taking Ibuprofen. I hid them all.”</p><p>“You’re mean.”</p><p>“Pragmatic.”</p><p>“It feels like my body is trying to wring itself inside out, or like, it’s disintegrating from the core.”</p><p>“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”</p><p>Héloïse lets out a pitiful moan and turns to her phone for less insane entertainment. Joe Exotic seriously freaks her out.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>Héloïse</b>
</p><p>
  <em> [dimanche 15:48] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sophie has hidden the Ibuprofen, she doesn’t trust me to handle the temptation. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Marianne</b>
</p><p>
  <em> [dimanche 15:48] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sophie is clever. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I feel betrayed, I thought you would be on my side in this. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sorry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But if very smart people say don’t mix Covid and Ibuprofen, it’s probably a good idea to listen to them. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But I feel like all my insides are about to bleed to pieces. It sucks. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I know, I know, but stay away from the wrong painkillers. It would be such an unimpressive way to go. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re using my dramatics against me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t think I like you anymore. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Oh no, L Word. Not <em> the </em> L word, and definitely not the tv show, but an L word nonetheless. Héloïse tries to backtrack, but the words escape her. Luckily, Marianne makes nothing of it.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s not my fault that you have period cramps and probably-Covid at the same time. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No, but you could be more sympathetic and also not side with Sophie when I’m in pain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m not siding with Sophie, I’m siding with science. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [nemo-glaring.gif] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Okay, that’s not fair. Don’t pout at me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How do you know I’m pouting? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I just know. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t have the energy to pout, all my energy is used up on suffering. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Also, if you haven’t fallen into the Tiger King abyss yet, don’t do it.<br/>
There are way better things on Netflix, like La Vie d’Adèle or Big Bang Theory. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Just to make sure – you’re not actually a fan of Big Bang Theory? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh, definitely not. But it’s better than Tiger King. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Right. Just wanted to check. Sarcasm and texting, you know. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Totally. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Also, I’ve watched La Vie d’Adèle, and once was more than enough. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Same. I didn’t look up how long it was gonna be before I started watching it. It’s so long. And annoying.<br/>
The Emma character is such an elitist at times. I kept watching hoping for a happy ending and didn’t even get that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wanna know something terrible? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anything to distract me from feeling like I’m dying. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh stop it you drama queen. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re mean. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anyway, back to you telling me something terrible. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ah, yes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Don’t laugh. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Or laugh, whatever, it’s not like I would know (unless you tell me you’re laughing.) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Ugh. Here goes: </em>
</p><p>
  <em> My mother recommended me to watch La Vie d’Adèle. After she’d seen it with some friends, they had some kind of film club going. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I hadn’t seen it yet and only vaguely knew of it as “it has lesbians” so I was like “yay, parental unit recommending me something that might be relevant to my interests”. And so I watched it, and when I got to you-know-what I wanted to die. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But I also wanted to know how it ended so I kept watching. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Wait, your mother told you to watch it </em> <b> <em>after</em> </b> <em> she had watched it? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I told you it’s terrible. All of it. The whole situation. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Just retelling it to you makes me wanna bleach my brain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m so second hand embarrassed over here now. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thank you for sharing my pain. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It helps distract me from my own pain. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And at least we know your mother is not a prude. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> NOT HELPING. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I don’t want to think about my mother (or her friends) watching that movie ever again. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You brought it up though. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I have regrets. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Also I may have laughed. But only a little. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [nemo-glaring.gif] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hey, that is _my_ facial expression substitute! Pick your own!! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Are you being serious? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> No. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe a little. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [sadness-faceplant.gif] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ow. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oof. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Okay. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sorry. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You can use the Nemo gif all you want. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [happy-pikachu.gif] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [wall-e-big-eyes.gif] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wanna know something that would have been even worse than your mother recommending La Vie d’Adèle? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> As far as movie recommendations go, I mean. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m not sure if you could come up with a more horrid scenario. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think I can. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Remember the movie Room in Rome? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m not sure if I want to admit to actually having watched that one. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think maybe you just did. In a backwards way. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [homer-hiding.gif] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> At least La vie d’Adèle has a plot. With a less creepy director it could have been good for real. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> True. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Also, why do I get the feeling that you at some point had one of those phases where you watched every movie or tv-show with a wlw plot in that you could find? Like, even the poorly translated Youtube complations of spanish telenovelas?<br/>
</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [homer-hiding.gif] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> We have all been there. Don't be ashamed.<br/>
</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I will neither confirm nor deny. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope the amount of texting isn't too horrible to read.<br/>(They haven't yet realised that they could call each other instead. Dummies.)</p><p>(Also, I've managed to write a little bit ahead this time, so there's no way it'll be five weeks until the next update.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. this photograph is proof</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, March 23 2020, 11:17]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>A new week, a new Héloïse. At least that’s what it feels like when she wakes up on Monday morning with no fever, and only a tiny bit of cramps. Naïma still insists that she takes another day or two off work, to properly rest up – refusing to listen to Héloïse arguing that desk jobs hardly count as exhaustive.</p><p>Her first plan is to ignore Naïma and work a bit anyway – it’s not like she could tell whether she’s reading or not – but she gets distracted when she goes to look for a book in the upstairs sitting room. That room is more of a library than anything, tall bookshelves lining most of the walls from floor to ceiling. There’s a sofa and two old armchairs, a fireplace and a desk. Had the furniture been a bit more ornate and uncomfortable, it would have fit right in a british regency era movie, but the sofa is from IKEA, its fabric a worn blue cotton, and no painfully polite men with fluffy brown hair wearing high collars and possibly top hats are knocking on doors to politely make Héloïse’s acquaintance.</p><p>She can’t find the book she’s after, not even after pulling out the ladder to check the topmost shelves. Instead she finds herself sat on the floor, flipping through old family photo albums.</p><p>The first ones are excessive in that way that always seem to happen when children are small. Every little change, every family outing, every scraped knee is the most important and documentable event ever. Jackets that are originally seen on Madeleine show up again, on Héloïse two-three years later, a little worn but still brightly coloured.</p><p>The years pass faster the older they get, once her front teeth have grown back out, the everyday snapshots are all but gone and it’s mostly vacations, graduations, sports, those kinds of things. Héloïse can physically feel the discomfort of her thirteen year old self, all knees and elbows and cutoff jeans standing next to Madeleine outside some old castle down south. Teen-her is glaring at the camera, Madeleine, still half a head taller back then, is all smiles in a flowery dress. After that, photos of Héloïse really only happen on birthdays, christmases and other festivities for the remainder of her adolescence.</p><p>There is one exception – two casual photos, taken here in Bretagne. She thinks she might be seventeen or so, standing barefoot under one of the large elms out back in the garden. Her dad had insisted on taking a picture for no particular reason. Héloïse had glared at him until she, despite herself, began to laugh.</p><p>They’re side by side on their own page – glaring Héloïse, and Héloïse cracking up.</p><p>Without thinking, she takes up her phone and snaps a picture of the glaring one and sends it to Marianne.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Héloïse</b>
</p><p>[lundi 13:17]</p><p><em> Teen me was a mood. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> [DSC001803.jpg] </em></p><p> </p><p>Marianne replies almost instantly. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Marianne</b>
</p><p>[lundi 13:17]</p><p>
  <em> She sure was. She looks like she wanted to fight at least a quarter of the universe for a lot of obscure reasons. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nah, not obscure – just the usual ones you know. All the isms. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fair enough. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> We had a feminist group in school. Surprisingly, I was the only one out of fourteen girls in that group who turned out being gay.<br/>That has always struck me as odd. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anyways, what did teenage you look like? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh, nothing special. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Somehow I find that hard to believe. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> -_- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Come on, I wanna see awkward teen-you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You know I’m just gonna keep bugging you about it until you send me a photo. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Marianne? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I can see that you're typing. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fine, fine, I’ll show you. Hang on. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse isn’t sure what she was expecting, but the blurry photo that pops up a minute later is not it. The image she has in her head of present day Marianne, with her air of softness, light and colour is a stark contrast to the sad-looking teen in the photo.</p><p>There’s just so much eyeliner, at least around the one eye not obscured by long, black bangs. In general there is a lot of haircut going on, and she even has a ring in her lower lip. Her clothes are dark too, and the strap of her messenger bag is completely covered in pins.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Aaaw! You look a bit like if Ash from Pokémon had an older, mopey sister. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Excuse you I did not! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You had manga hair! </em>
</p><p><em> I feel mildly anxious thinking about your monthly hairspray budget back then. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> They should name one of the holes in the ozone layer after you. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Very cute though. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Marianne sends a smiling emoji back.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> When did you ditch the lip piercing? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse tries to not think too hard about it, but she feels like she would have noticed – and remembered – a piercing scar by Marianne’s lip. After all, she did spend quite some time kissing her, not too long ago. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Um, I took it out like right after that photo. It was a fake, my parents would never have allowed a real one.<br/>I struggled enough to make them let me go to festivals and concerts before I turned 18. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Did you do the whole “live in a tent on a muddy field at a festival”-thing? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh yes. Those were the days. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Maman would have disowned me if I’d done anything like that.<br/>Camping for nature was okay, barely, but camping for loud music and lukewarm beer? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’ve never been to a festival? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Never. Lots of concerts, but not as a teen, and never a festival.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Aaaw, poor you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re telling me the muddy tents and lukewarm beer and minimal sleep is fun? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s.. a formative experience. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh, do tell. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s not that exciting, it was just that for me it was the first couple of times I got to spend more than a day or two away from home without adult-adults around.<br/>That’s memorable in itself I suppose. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Did you get up to any mischief? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Marianne keeps typing for a long while, then nothing appears and then she types again.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 13:31]</p><p>
  <em> Alright, so you know the tiny tattoo I have on my side? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse does know. Also “on her side” is a supremely vague placement description. It’s just to the side of her breast, not an inch from where the soft gives way to ribs.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I got it at the second festival I went to. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> This girl who was camping three tents down from me and my friends did stick and pokes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You did not? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s true. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But it doesn’t look like a stick and poke? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She was good. And I have had it re-inked once since, it faded after a few years. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But the reason it’s right there is because I knew that was one of the spots where I could hide it from my parents. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Marianne goes quiet. Héloïse is remembering the tiny, cartoonish rain cloud on the side of Marianne’s rib cage. It would be completely covered by a regular bra.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 13:34]</p><p>
  <em> She was also the first girl I hooked up with. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Before or after the tattoo? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse doesn’t know why she asks that. It’s not important, really. But what else could she say in response to that turn of the conversation?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Like, next day. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She came over to our group of tents when we were having some beers in between two concerts. And in hindsight it was kind of obvious that she mostly wanted to talk to me, and I didn’t care much for the next band my friends wanted to see, so we stayed at the camp when they left. </em>
</p><p><em> And then when the others were gone, she just asked me outright </em> “you’re into girls, right, I’m not making stuff up?”. <em> And I had never even thought about it, not properly at least, which maybe was weird, cause I was 18 and a half and people think about those things sooner, right? </em></p><p>
  <em> So anyway, I told her I didn’t know, and she said I was cute, and then she kissed me. And, well, turns out I was into it. And you can probably guess the rest. Never saw her again after that festival though, but unless she has deleted me I think we’re still friends on Facebook. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That is a very cute story. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So cute. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> She had a blonde pixie cut and a nose ring. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So you never had any gay panic? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Oh no, I had plenty. Later on. Because what happens at festivals is just festivals, you know.<br/>My friends didn’t even realise that we hooked up then, they just thought we were bonding, </em> “like drunk girls do” <em> – their words, not mine. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well, technically I don’t know what happens at festivals since I’ve never been to one, but I get the point. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It was a long time between that girl and the next one. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s something somber about Marianne’s words. Héloïse gets the impression that there might be a longer story behind them, but maybe not the kind of story that should be told over text on a Monday afternoon. She tells Marianne as much, if not outright.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If you ever want to talk about things, I’m happy to listen. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thanks. :) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Same, by the way. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> So what bands did you go see at those festivals? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> When you weren’t busy with.. other activities? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ahah. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> So many. That’s the thing, you go for like, a handful, and then there’s another hundred acts that you might end up watching anyway. But the ones I actually wanted to see.. hmm.. Paramore. Underoath. A Day To Remember.. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think I’ve heard of Paramore. That’s the band with the tiny redhead? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Exactly. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The other ones though.. I’m clueless. I might need to go on a Spotify search. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I could make you a playlist? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The Soundtrack of Marianne’s Teen Years? Yes please! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’ll see what I can come up with. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse half expects Marianne to bounce back the question about what music she liked when she was younger, and she tries to prepare an interesting answer but her mind is blank. Whatever was on the radio, and whatever Madeleine played that seeped through the walls would have been the truth. Her taste in music is still a work in progress, if she’s being honest with herself.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 14:01]</p><p>
  <em> Do you think we would have been friends if we had met back then? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Not the question she was preparing for, but one that is difficult to answer all the same. Héloïse tries to picture her teenage self roaming around with a group of shadow creatures listening to music she’s never heard of. It’s difficult, she has no idea what they would do. Or how they would encounter each other in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t know. I hope so, if hope works in hindsight. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But I don’t know how we could possibly have gotten to know each other. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah, it would have been a long shot. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe I would have dragged you to festivals, if we had.. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Here’s another song by the way – it’s not going on the playlist because it doesn’t fit into the theme, musically, but listening to it always takes me back to being 17-18 and wanting to see the world. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/4sD9nPRNqWww4mADeEfJhi?si=MSrvn8FBSD2DicxlMVV-oA"> <em> https://open.spotify.com/track/4sD9nPRNqWww4mADeEfJhi?si=MSrvn8FBSD2DicxlMVV-oA </em> </a>
</p><p> </p><p>The intro is soft. A bass, thoughtful and sparse. Then drums, piano. The music builds and builds, an image taking shape along with it in Héloïse’s mind. Of Marianne, ten years ago, staring out a rain-streaked classroom window while chewing on a pen, her mind anywhere but on the maths she should be focusing on.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “..and every Thursday, I’d brave those mountain passes, you’d skip your early classes, and we’d learn how our bodies worked..” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Doodles in the margins of her notebooks, a beat up iPod, the unmistakable sound of chairs scraping on a cold linoleum floor. It’s illogical, but for a brief moment, Héloïse is wildly jealous of the long-lost amateur tattooist from the festival. Or anyone Marianne could have thought of really. Anyone who ever got the pleasure of knowing her back then.</p><p>Her thoughts drift back to herself at that age. It’s true what she said to Marianne, the two of them taking any notice of each other had they met as teenagers feels so unlikely she could laugh. There’s a time and place for everything, she tells herself. And things happen for a reason, and every other cliché her brain can conjure, like tiny band-aids for the soul.</p><p>Her time is now. Might be. Hopefully.</p><p>It’s just that it’s frustrating, that their time and place began days before a pandemic shut down the entire country and beyond. She wants more hungover mornings with Marianne, she wants <em> more than </em> hungover mornings – she wants the sober, and sleep-deprived, and “fuck-I’m-running-late-where-are-my-keys”-mornings too.</p><p>The “this-editorial-is-so-stupid-sorry-I’m-arguing-loudly-with-the-paper” mornings, the mornings when there’s no more juice and someone heads off to work a little bit angry, the mornings where the one kiss-goodbye-have-a-nice-day becomes three, for no other reason than emotions being too big to stay still on the inside.</p><p>Want.</p><p>What a terrifying concept.</p><p>As is time.</p><p>Which Héloïse has an abundance of at the moment, but without the freedom to spend it as she likes it feels more like a punishment than a gift. And for all she knows she’s still infectious and a danger to society.</p><p>She is pulled back to reality when her phone beeps again.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 14:48]</p><p>
  <em> Here you go. Don’t judge me too hard, I had a lot of emotions. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <a href="https://open.spotify.com/playlist/58Qy0hEhZDNeEW57e0jiR0?si=-tj-Xi9KTGuN-Lmn6b09NA"> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/58Qy0hEhZDNeEW57e0jiR0?si=-tj-Xi9KTGuN-Lmn6b09NA </a>
</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 14:49]</p><p>
  <em> No judgement, I promise. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m just happy that you wanna share. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse clicks on the link – Spotify launching slowly, her phone has seen better days – and lies back on the couch as the sound of distorted guitars rip through the previously so quiet room.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, March 24 2020, 08:08]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Soph, can tea go out of date?”</p><p>Sophie looks up from her crossword, answering through a mouthful of granola.</p><p>“Maybe, why?”</p><p>“This tastes like nothing.”</p><p>Héloïse is glaring suspiciously at the steaming mug she’s holding, sniffing the cloud rising from it.</p><p>“Weird, gimme a sec, I’ll have one too.”</p><p>Sophie pours herself a cup as well, dropping a handful of ice cubes in it to make it cool down faster, then takes a large gulp.</p><p>“It tastes like usual to me. Minty.”</p><p>Héloïse curses under her breath.</p><p>“What about..” Sophie pauses. “Cinnamon? That is a very specific taste.”</p><p>Trying to eat dry cinnamon is a bad idea. Héloïse should know better. Once she’s finished coughing and sneezing, and Sophie has finished laughing, she rapidly makes her way through the entire fridge and pantry, taking a bite or sip of everything that normally has a distinct taste, and life has never seemed this bland before. Watered-down with a tinge of bitter. The only tastes she is sure of feeling and not just remembering are the most basic ones. Salt. Sweet. Sour. And even those are dulled. Everything else tastes like she imagines dry concrete or sawdust might.</p><p>“Putain,” she sighs once there are no more foods to try.</p><p>“Well, on the upside, now we can be even more certain that you have covid,” Sophie says.</p><p>“Is that a good thing though?”</p><p>“If you don’t get any worse than this it’s not too bad is it?”</p><p>“But I really wanted mint tea,” Héloïse whines, feeling oddly frightened all of a sudden. “What if my taste is gone for a long time? Eating will be so boring!”</p><p>Sophie makes a sympathetic noise, and pats her on the head with a spatula.</p><p>“Dude, that’s not how social distancing works,” Héloïse sighs and leans her forehead against the fridge door, sending an ugly old magnet towards an untimely death against the kitchen floor in the process.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>Héloïse</b>
</p><p>[mardi 10:57]</p><p>
  <em> Enjoyable developments of events: I seem to have lost my taste. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Marianne</b>
</p><p>[mardi 11:02]</p><p>
  <em> Oh no, what did you do? Please don’t tell me you’ve started wearing low-waisted, flared jeans again because I’m pretty sure those should never ever be allowed to leave the 00’s. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hah, trop drôle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I mean I lost my _sense_ of taste. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I should apparently never have shown you that photo of teenage me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s not my fault that 00’s fashion was terrible. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ah, right. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My toothpaste now tastes like how I imagine plaster would taste. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And the concept of tea is entirely obsolete. It’s just hot water but not colourless. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That must suck. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You have no idea. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Even chocolate tastes bland. Just.. vaguely sweet and greasy. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I want to say though, that I feel privileged to have been shown a photo of teenage you, terrible fashion and all. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Likewise, manga head. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> You do know that Manga Head is the name of a very intense hair product, right? </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Like, a real one, a thing that exists. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Please tell me you’re kidding. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [capture-d-ecran0237_.png] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Mon dieu. It’s real. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Unfortunately, yes. It's not exactly good for your hair.<br/></em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m glad you’ve moved on from that now. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Not that there’s something wrong with subcultures or anything, and you were very cute. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s just that your hair is so nice now, and un-spikey. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thank you. :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Marianne goes silent, and Héloïse can’t help but think that her own tendency to blurt out accidental compliments is a terrible habit. At least when it comes to keeping conversations alive over text. In real life it’s easier to shrug off somehow, or walk away.</p><p>Maybe Marianne thinks she’s annoying.</p><p>Quiet dread drips down her spine at the thought. The tiny optimist in her head is jumping up and down, shouting that perhaps Marianne went quiet because she’s flustered, in a good way, but it’s so much easier to trust the other voice, the one saying she’s being a fool.</p><p> </p><p>[mardi, 11:17]</p><p>
  <em> Oh, and thanks for the playlist yesterday. Not what I usually listen to, but I can definitely see the appeal of Very Emotional Music at times.<br/>Or hear, not see. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[mardi, 11:17]</p><p>
  <em> How did you like the playlist by the way? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Braincell. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hah, same thought. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah, that music can be a lot, very dramatic and kind of adolescent, but it’s nice in a way. I think it’s good to not always be measured when it comes to emotions.<br/>Sometimes it’s good to let it all out? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I like when you type like Winnie the Pooh. Using capital letters to Emphasise Things. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>There’s that word again. Like.</p><p>Marianne, specifically, liking something Héloïse does.</p><p>It’s a tiny, insignificant little thing, and yet, Héloïse feels herself smiling, thoughtlessly, all warm inside.</p><p>Like.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Thanks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I think it’s interesting how written language is constantly developing, to make up for the lack of _voice_, and body language. And also how the understanding of those subtleties are much more present in younger generations. I don’t know about you, but to me there’s a big difference in tone between “hi”, “Hi”, “hi.” and “hi!” for example, whereas maman would only pick up the “difference” between what’s grammatically correct or not. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (Although that could just be maman being annoying, the jury’s still out on that one.) </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And how in writing out chats, or when incorporating texts in visual media, the narrator should be on the right, because that’s how it’s laid out in messaging. That has just automated itself into our brains now, and it’s only existed for a few decades. It’s fascinating somehow. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sorry, I’m rambling. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No need to apologise. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I think it’s interesting too. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But mostly I just found the Emphasising Of Things to be cute. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Cute.</p><p>Cute.</p><p>Héloïse stares at the four letters.</p><p>Cute.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For anyone not using Spotify – the first song Marianne sends to Héloïse is "We Looked Like Giants" by Death Cab For Cutie.</p><p>Hope y'all liked it. Bisous!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. the downside of putting things on tables</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In honour of second confinement, and daylight-savings-time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, March 27, 17:34]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Did anyone actually believe they would let us out after two weeks? Honestly?”</p><p>Sophie’s question is very rhetorical, and Héloïse agrees one hundred percent. Two weeks is nothing in pandemic time. The news reports are still filled with numbers going up, up, up, only interrupted by the reports of high speed trains being used to transport people from the worst affected regions to ICUs elsewhere.</p><p>“I know one person,” Héloïse says, holding up her phone where her mother is blowing up via text messages from across the yard.</p><p>“I love your mother, but she’s a little detatched from reality at times.”</p><p>“You don’t say. She makes no sense, her life is quite close to its normal state as well, what is all the fuss about?”</p><p>“Maybe it’s the middle aged version of telling a kid to not do something, only to have them desperately wanting to do just that?”</p><p>“Or she’s just a privileged boomer. Or late boomer. Close enough at least.”</p><p>“It’s not like we would be able to do much but stay here over the next two weeks anyway,” Sophie concludes, a stray cough reinforcing her statement.</p><p>“Probably not, no,” Héloïse agrees.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[March 27, 21:04]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“Why are you smiling at your phone like that?”</p><p>Sophie appears in the doorway, dressed in Héloïse’s old onesie folded several times at both sleeves and legs, which makes her look even smaller than she actually is, and carrying the largest tea mug the household can conjure. Her face is semi-obscured by the accompanying cloud of steam.</p><p>“Hm, nothing.” Héloïse tries to sound as unengaging as possible. “Just a funny meme.”</p><p>“Hah, nice try. You wouldn’t understand a meme if it came up to you and smacked you in the face. That kind of stuff is below you, litterature snob.”</p><p>“Pfft, I understand memes.”</p><p>Sophie puts her tea on the table and flops down next to Héloïse on the couch.</p><p>“Uh huh. Let me see then.”</p><p>Héloïse goes stiff.</p><p>Sophie tries to snatch her phone.</p><p>“So, not a meme after all? Just spit it out, who the hell are you texting? Did you go make waves in the local Tinder pool or something?”</p><p>Héloïse scoffs at her.</p><p>“I did not. I don’t even use Tinder.”</p><p>“Eh, yes you do, but that’s beside the point. What makes you smile like a loon at your phone? Also, since when are you on your phone all the time?”</p><p>“I’m.. branching out. Trying to interact more with the modern spaces in society.”</p><p>“What does that even mean? Aside from you being a pretentious dork I mean.”</p><p>“Nothing, can’t a girl have some privacy?”</p><p>Héloïse scoots over to the other end of the sofa, knowing full well that Sophie will revisit the topic, and most likely sooner rather than later. For now she seems content though, having made Héloïse flustered, and she curls up with her tea, turning the TV on.</p><p>“Buffy?” Héloïse perks up and puts her phone down as she hears the familiar intro, only to pick it up again five seconds later to ask if Marianne has ever seen Buffy, and if so, did she like it?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[March 28, 14:18]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse makes it through another day, almost, before Sophie figures it out. Or, more precisely before Sophie steals her phone and makes Héloise regret ever telling her the pin code. Although, in hindsight she’s actually glad that it happened so soon.</p><p>“It’s plant-girl!” Sophie is practically bouncing, appearing from out of nowhere, abruptly interrupting Héloïse’s daily hours of peace and quiet on the terrace.</p><p>“What about her? Also she has a name.”</p><p>“It’s her you’ve been constantly texting!”</p><p>“No..?”</p><p>The sun has been out all day, but it seems to have gotten a lot warmer in the last minute. Héloïse tries her hardest to keep a neutral face, neutral voice, but she feels like it’s not going very well, judging by the knowing look Sophie sends her way.</p><p>“Oh come on, I just went through your phone, you’ve been texting like, non-stop for a week and a half, or more. Like, since the day after we got here.”</p><p>Okay then. Defeat. Accept it.</p><p>“I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to steal people’s phones like that,” Héloïse mutters.</p><p>“Meh, you left it on the kitchen table, and I didn’t really read much, just scrolled back enough to realise the absolute vastness of your conversation.”</p><p>“Glad you’re having fun, can I please have it back now?” Héloïse says darkly.</p><p>“Have you ever texted this much in your life? You should be careful, your thumbs aren’t used to the exercise.”</p><p>“You should be careful, I could just tell Marianne to let all your plants wilt and die.”</p><p>Sophie gasps, looking almost genuinely distressed for a second. Héloïse thinks of innocent plants wilting and knows that she could never let that happen in good conscience. The question is whether Sophie knows.</p><p>“Gimme my phone back or Claude dies a terrible death.”</p><p>“Actually, he won't. If I have the phone I can just keep texting plant-girl pretending to be you and Claude will be just fine.”</p><p>“Then I’ll <em> email </em> her and tell her you stole my phone.”</p><p>“Wow, you’re almost capable of making the word “email” sound threatening. I’m impressed.”</p><p>“Emails are threatening in themselves. Now, can I please just have my phone back?” Héloïse is not below resorting to whining.</p><p>“You have a point, she does have a very nice looking balcony,” Sophie says.</p><p>Oh crap.<br/>Héloïse braces herself.</p><p>“But I’m guessing you maybe appreciated the look of the person in the picture more than the look of the balcony?”</p><p>“Can I <em> please </em> have my phone back now?”</p><p>She can’t, despite making a half-hearted effort at launching herself, trying to grab it from Sophie’s hand. Instead Sophie reads her own text back at her in a cheery voice.</p><p>“That looks lovely. I’m glad you can be outdoors whenever you want, even if it’s a small space. Also your tan will be incredible once Beach 2020 rolls around. If there will be a Beach 2020. Fingers crossed.”</p><p>Héloïse makes a sad noise and pulls her cap down over her eyes.</p><p>“Fine, I’ll stop harassing you. Don’t tell her to kill my plants, please.”</p><p>Sophie finally hands the phone over. When Héloïse unlocks it it opens to Whatsapp, and the photo of Marianne on her balcony. It is a very nice balcony, small, but it has a flower in a pot and a tiny table and a deck chair. It also has Marianne in a bikini top and cutoff jeans, smiling at the camera, and Héloïse can be honest enough with herself to admit that the presence of Marianne in any form or outfit would add infinitely to a place’s appeal.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[March 28, 18:01]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>“There’s something I forgot to ask you,” Sophie says offhandedly as they’re peeling carrots and potatoes for tonight’s dinner.</p><p>“That is a supremely vague statement, but go on.”</p><p>“How exactly did you and plant-girl meet?”</p><p>Héloïse wants to groan, loudly, but keeps it to a bunch of assorted expletives in her head. If the rest of confinement will be like today, she’ll be able to skip her daily walks because this – this being Sophie interrogating her about Marianne – keeps her heartbeat at a constant rate that definitely counts as cardiovascular exercise.</p><p>“She has a name,” she points out, dead focused on peeling carrots and not looking at Sophie.</p><p>“Don’t deflect.”</p><p>“Don’t call her plant-girl.”</p><p>“Fine, fine, how did you and <em> Marianne </em> meet?”</p><p>There’s a lilt to Sophie’s voice as she says Marianne’s name that Héloïse definitely won’t react to, but in hindsight maybe Sophie calling her plant-girl felt better somehow. Less real.</p><p>“Um.”</p><p>Sophie’s staring at her, expectantly. Héloïse’s eyes are still fixed on the carrot, which is rapidly shrinking seeing as its actual peel was gone quite a while ago, but Héloïse <em> knows </em> she’s staring without looking up, because that’s what Sophie does in situations like this.</p><p>It feels like a proper <em> ripping off a band-aid </em> scenario. Better just spit it out fast and hope she won’t catch the details. Although who is she trying to fool – it’s Sophie – flatmate extraordinaire and also frustratingly perceptive at all times.</p><p>Héloïse tries anyway.</p><p>“We-met-at-work-because-she’s-doing-a-freelance-gig-of-a-lot-of-cover-art,<br/>for-some-of-the-YA-series-we’re-publishing,<br/>and-then-at-the-end-of-the-week-Antoine-invited-her-to-join-our-friday-drinks,<br/>aaa-and-things-just-happened.”</p><p>For two seconds, the only thing heard is the peeler, turning the last fragments of Héloïse’s carrot into thin flakes flying into the sink. Then Sophie pipes up, her voice soaked in amusement.</p><p>“What do you mean <em> just happened </em>? Did she just randomly stick her tongue in your mouth after two beers?”</p><p>“Ugh, no, not like that,” Héloïse protests.</p><p>She knows she’s being baited to tell the actual story, it’s not the first time Sophie has gotten her to talk about things through annoying her with inaccurate guesses at scenarios, but deep down she doesn’t mind. Her mind has been so much <em> Marianne this, Marianne that </em> lately, and talking out loud about her feels surprisingly nice.</p><p>“She just.. um, I..” Héloïse tries to explain how it happened, but her brain keeps getting stuck on the mental image of Marianne waiting for her, them, outside the bar as they were heading back to Antoine’s, and how she had smiled when Héloïse exited, bringing her jacket, and how she had walked a little too close all the way over, so that their arms kept brushing and Héloïse’s mind had been sent into overdrive trying to figure out if it was on purpose or not, determined on not giving in to the voice in her head chanting “hold her hand, hold her hand”.</p><p>“Oooh, admit it – you’d been checking her out from like the second you first saw her at work, am I right?”</p><p>“No, I didn’t,” Héloïse lies, remembering seeing her through the glass wall of Antoine’s office as she had walked by on that last normal Tuesday, and just.. slowed down her normally brisk stride a little to be able to look for a second longer.</p><p>“Sure you didn’t,” Sophie counters. “I bet you we’re staring at her, and then got all stupid once you actually had a reason to talk to her.”</p><p>“..no?”</p><p>“Why do you even try this with me? You know that I know that you’re a disaster around pretty girls.”</p><p>“How do you know she’s pretty?”</p><p>“I’m just assuming. Also, there’s a Marianne that I have three friends in common with who is constantly in my Instagram and Facebook recs lately, and I’m guessing that would be her? Short-ish dark hair, huge eyes?”</p><p>“Umm, yes, probably yes,” Héloïse stammers.</p><p>“Cool. Mind if I friend her?”</p><p>“You don’t even know her!”</p><p>Her protest comes out as an undignified blend of a shout and a squeak, and Héloïse shoots a quick glance at Sophie, who looks like she’s about to burst out laughing, then returns to another carrot. Maybe this one will not be peeled into oblivion.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse<br/></b>[samedi, 19:48]</p><p>
  <em> Sophie stole my phone. She has been interrogating me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Marianne<br/></b>[samedi 19:48]</p><p><em> Don’t forget that we lose an hour tonight.<br/></em> <em> Worst mild inconvenience ever btw, why can’t we just always have the winter time setting? </em></p><p> </p><p><em> What?!<br/></em> <em> I don’t follow. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh, text overlap. Just me trying to start a conversation through providing somewhat redundant information, since most things reset the time automatically nowadays.<br/>She did what?! Is that even legal? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That’s what I said. Thank you. :)<br/>So, anyway, Sophie knows that we’ve been texting a lot, and since I don’t normally text people much she’s being a little pest about it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse is not sure what to say, more than that. It’s difficult, because everything feels a bit like limbo. They haven’t really talked about what they’re doing, or what might happen after confinement, or what they are, or would like to be, if they are <b>anything</b> at all. There’s the promise of a dinner as thanks for keeping the plants alive, once confinement is over, but that isn’t much to go by, as far as clarifications go.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But you text me loads? <br/></em>
  <em> I feel honoured.<br/></em>
  <em>Should I feel honoured? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yes.<br/>You’re better than most people.<br/></em>
  <em>Even though your attempts at starting a conversation are kinda crap at times. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh thanks.<br/></em>
  <em>:) </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>[insert cloud emoji here]</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Madeleine Marteau must die</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, April 6, 14:00]</b> <b></b></p><p> </p><p>Three weeks into confinement, the days have definitely started to blur. It’s all a big, dreary lump of dutiful one hour walks, zoom sessions, Netflix binges and uninspired cooking. It’s not helped in the slightest by a string of days with the most nondescript lukewarm weather possible. The one-and-a-half upside – food almost tastes like food again, and Marianne has enthusiastically taken part in logging Héloïse’s progress via text.</p><p> </p><p><b>Marianne<br/></b>[lundi 14:01]</p><p>
  <em> Any new re-discoveries on the tastebud spectrum today? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse<br/></b>[lundi 14:02]</p><p><em> Sadly no, only bad news on the general topic of food.<br/></em> <em> My mother has decided that we are to reinstate the family dinners.<br/></em> <em> I need to kill this idea with fire. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I thought she was living in the annex? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> She is, and she probably will keep doing so until this is all over, but she wants to intrude on the peace of our kitchen on a daily basis for socialising.<br/></em> <em> Why is socialising in the garden not enough? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> On the upside, that means fewer days when you have to cook. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> On the downside, it means more hours in the week when I have to interact with my mother. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Marianne goes silent for a while, Héloïse can’t blame her. Her mother is not a thrilling topic to text about.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 14:23]</p><p>
  <em> What is the deal with you and your mother, if you don’t mind me asking? From what I’ve heard you get along alright-ish? Non? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> We’re just too different.<br/>I’ve always been closer to my father. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Different how? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> She just doesn’t get me, and I don’t really get her either.<br/>When I was little, I loved reading, and being outdoors, and things like that, and she didn’t share those interests, and I guess she tried to push me in other directions in a way.<br/></em> <em> It has always felt like she wants me to be more like Madeleine. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You still love reading and being outdoors though? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> True. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> More like Madeleine? That’s your sister? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Yup. Perfect big sister.<br/></em> <em> She has never done a thing wrong in her life, at least not according to maman. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m sure she has. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Not that maman knows of, at least.<br/></em> <em> Are you okay with a wall of text? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Of course. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Madeleine is.. a very pleasant person. I love her, she’s my sister, but she’s so moderate in everything.<br/>Like, she has interests but they never become obsessions, she has opinions but they’re always on the comfortable side of things, she studied economics at university, got good but not stellar grades, met a handsome face and got engaged after an acceptable amount of time, and now she lives in Quebéc with her handsomeface-turned-husband and two children.<br/></em> <em> An accomplished life by the age of 30. </em></p><p>
  <em> For example: imagine the popular girls at school – not the scary ones, but the ones who were a bit like extras in an american tv-show for teens.<br/>That’s my sister. Not a rebellious bone in her body. And she has always been into fashion and makeup and interior design and all that stuff that I’m not, but that she and maman have in common. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well, the way you describe her she sounds nothing like you, that’s for sure. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Yeah, we’re not much alike. I was invisible. Still am in a way. I’m either invisible or too much.<br/></em> <em> No inbetween. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Héloïse, you are not invisible. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> School was fun (not), especially when we got older.<br/></em> <em> People kinda struggled to piece together that we were siblings, even though we look a lot alike, because how could the popular ray of sunshine with silky hair and perfect style be related to the quiet one who always sat in a corner reading? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That sounds a bit like the plot of John Tucker Must Die. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Who is John Tucker and why must he die? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> ??¿?<br/></em> <em> It’s a movie. Classic american high-school movie.<br/></em> <em> Please, don’t tell me you haven’t seen it! </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Um, I’ve never even heard of it. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Wow. Okay. Wow.<br/></em> <em> Right. Two options. Either you find it and watch it right this second. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Mhm? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Or we have a movie night once this fuckery is over. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Movie night sounds good? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Butterflies, butterflies, imagine being sat on a couch with Marianne and a bowl of popcorn and two glasses of wine. Maybe a blanket too. Maybe getting up for no good reason, only to accidentally very much on purpose sit back down a little closer. Do that thing with the arm on the back of the couch, or better yet – have it being done to you. To lose track of the ending because soft lips, curious hands.</p><p>A tiny daydream that could as well be set on a different planet. Best case scenario, they have another week and a half of confinement. But the numbers are still steady, way too high, and Héloïse has stopped hoping.</p><p>Maybe she’ll be back in Paris in June or so. Anything sooner feels like a bonus.</p><p>Her phone vibrates in her hand. Three times in rapid succession.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi 14:48]</p><p><em> Sorry but I’m gonna have to backtrack and yell for a second.<br/></em> <em> I realised I’m in a bit of a shock.<br/></em> <em> JOHN TUCKER MUST DIE IS AN ESSENTIAL TEEN MOVIE. I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU’VE NEVER SEEN IT. IT HAS BRITTANY SNOW. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Brittany who now? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Please tell me you’ve at least seen Pitch Perfect? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> The one that’s like Glee but a movie? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Close enough. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sorry, but I haven’t watched that one either. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Okay, so, I'm vaguely impressed that you somehow know of Glee, depite clearly being brought up in a parallell universe void of teen culture.<br/>But. I think this will have to end with movie nights. As in several.<br/>We’re gonna have to de-culture you. Bring on the british rom-coms, and all the american stereotypes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anyways, the character John Tucker is a HSBC alpha male basketball jerk, and he has a younger brother who is nothing like him, and the brother is known as The Other Tucker, because well, he’s not the central figure in school hierarchy and teens are idiots. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Well, I was The Other Marteau, no doubt about it.<br/></em> <em> Do you have siblings? I don’t think I ever asked. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah, a younger brother. Romain. He’s annoying as hell, or he used to be when we were younger at least.<br/>He’s 24 now, and lives in Toulouse for uni. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wanna trade? Annoying little brother for parents’ pet big sister? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I mean I would have jumped at the chance ten years ago.<br/>Trading adult siblings seems a bit redundant though.<br/>Especially since yours is on the other side of the Atlantic.<br/></em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Fair enough. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[April 8 2020, 16:47]</b>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Marianne<br/></b>[mercredi 16:47]</p><p>
  <em> Do you know that Sophie texts me, like, every other day to talk about the plants? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse<br/></b>[mercredi 16:51]</p><p><em> Eh, no?<br/></em> <em> I mean I knew she has your number since I gave it to her, but I didn’t know you guys _talked_. </em></p><p> </p><p>Héloïse feels a bit unsettled knowing that.<br/>A dash of jealousy mixed with a large spoon of please don’t talk about me, Sophie, please don’t embarrass me.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s oddly endearing really, she cares an insane amount about those plants, doesn’t she? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tell me about it. And she’s good with them so they just grow, and grow, and grow, and create more baby plants..<br/>It’s a plant vortex. I’m sure you can have some sprouts? Saplings? If you want. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m not sure she trusts that I won’t kill them. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Probably not, but in case any of the smaller current ones accidentally die, let me know.<br/></em> <em> I’ll get you money to buy new ones.<br/></em> <em> The big one is the important one.<br/>Thankfully he seems to be of a fairly difficult-to-kill species.<br/>I've had a few close calls but he bounces back.<br/></em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Claude? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Yup, that’s the one.<br/></em> <em> I can’t believe she named it Claude.<br/></em> <em> Did she tell you why? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Because her favourite painter is Claude Monet.<br/></em> <em> I’m pretty sure she has a frequent visitor’s card at the Musée d’Orsay. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I can respect that. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Me too, but I’ve always preferred his other art over the water-lily-centered ones.<br/></em> <em> The sunrise one, of course. And the ones from the Riviera. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> I like the ones from Belle-Île. And some of the water lilies ones, especially the later ones when his eyesight was declining.<br/>Maybe that’s odd, but it feels very in line with impressionism somehow.<br/>Because they are impressions of what he could see at that time.<br/></em> <em> Also the hellish red makes them look kinda badass. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> Sometimes I wonder if anyone sees colour the same way I do.<br/></em> <em> But I can’t get into someone else's head, so I will never know. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Hmm, I don’t know about that.<br/>I feel like you are in my head a lot of the time. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Now that, was an unexpected turn of the conversation. Héloïse would be lying if she said that she hasn’t been thinking a lot about Marianne too, but up until this point they’ve mostly steered clear of the “before all of this happened we hooked up”-territory. This is the closest they’ve gotten to that in three or so weeks. She stares at the screen in her hand, Marianne is not typing, and she finds herself at a loss for words. She’s desperate to keep the conversation going, but also terrified to say the wrong thing.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My plants have names too, I don’t think I’ve told you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She chucks her phone on the bed and goes to the kitchen to raid the fridge for <em> anything </em> just to keep her head occupied. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work at all.</p><p><em> My plants have names too. </em> Ugh. Way to kill a conversation, Héloïse, she quietly scolds herself. And to make matters worse, they’re out of orange juice.</p><p> </p><p>“Sophie?!” Héloïse yells.</p><p>“Comment?” comes the reply from the garden.</p><p>“We need to go grocery shopping, we’re out of juice too now. I need my vitamin C.”</p><p>Sophie walks in, her hands and the knees of her jeans covered in dirt.</p><p>“Okay, we can drive up to Auray tomorrow? It’s too late to go today I think, I’ve heard the queues are unreal in the afternoons. Also we should make a proper list so we don’t have to go again for a while..” Sophie trails off, washes her hands in the kitchen sink and starts looking through the cupboards.</p><p>“Definitely more pasta. And we need onions.. probably potatoes, yes potatoes, they will last forever in the basement.. are you writing this down?” she asks, throwing Héloïse a quick look over her shoulder.</p><p>“Should I be writing this down?”</p><p>Sophie just sighs and shakes her head. Héloïse grabs a pencil and an old envelope from the stack of random stuff covering one end of the dining table.</p><p>Once Sophie decides that they’re done with their impromptu kitchen inventory, it’s almost dinner time. Héloïse investigates the fridge and assembles some kind of casserole with rice and sausages. Perfectly edible, but it also has the food equivalent vibe of when it’s laundry day and you wear clothes that don’t really match. It’s definitely time to go grocery shopping. She walks over to the annex and taps on the door.</p><p>“Maman, dinner’s ready.”</p><p>It’s been less annoying than she feared, this whole “interacting with mother on a daily basis”. The virus kind of helped, with her and Sophie being confined to the main building and her mother in the annex. She hates to admit it, even just to herself, but it’s kind of nice that the three of them have gotten back to having dinner together again every evening. It’s a perfect daily dose of her mother.</p><p>She doesn’t think about where she left the conversation with Marianne, until she’s getting ready for bed. Her phone is lying on the bed where she threw it, the small light in the top left corner blinking to indicate there are unread messages.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Marianne</b>
</p><p>
  <em> They do? I honestly imagined you to be too cool to name your plants. ;) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It was sent at 19:49, almost two hours after Héloïse had texted her last.</p><p>Maybe Marianne also got stressed about where the conversation was heading. Or maybe she has a life outside of watering plants and texting, get a grip Héloïse, seriously.</p><p>The message also has a winky emoji. Which is decidedly different from the regular smiley ones Marianne tends to use.</p><p>Héloïse is unsure what to make of that, because she won’t let her mind run amok. Not now. Not ever.</p><p> </p><p>[mercredi 22:06]</p><p>
  <em> Naming plants is cool. I know it must be, since I’m doing it.<br/>Austen, Astrid, Simone and Otto.<br/>Way better names than Claude, if I may say so. Can you guess which one is which? </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[Auray, Morbihan, April 9 2020, 11:37]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Going grocery shopping on the Thursday before Easter is commonly known as one of the worst ideas in modern society. Unfortunately, Héloïse, as humans tend to do, needs food to survive and thus, she is currently standing in a ridiculously spaced out queue to enter the local Carrefour with an itchy scarf wrapped around her face. The line is moving along at a snail’s pace, and she has considered murdering the guy right in front of her, who is constantly shouting on his phone, on more than one occasion already.</p><p>Sophie is sitting in the shopping cart, scrolling through Twitter and simultaneously looking through her very extensive list of things they need to buy.</p><p>When they after twenty minutes of frustration reach the entrance, there is a large sign that among other things says that only one person per household is allowed in. Héloïse braces herself for an argument, but either the guard at the door has given up on some of his duties, or Sophie slouching in the trolley with her eyes glued to whatever’s happening on her phone gives off enough kid vibes for the two of them to pass through unbothered.</p><p>Before long, the trolley is filling up enough that Sophie is robbed of her seat. Héloïse is being painfully systematic, rolling up and down the aisles one by one to make sure to not miss anything and thus have to backtrack. Backtracking feels like it would be wildly frowned upon in this place and time – there are red tape markings all over the floor to make people keep their distance, and every now and then there’s a crackling message over the loudspeakers about sanitary measurements.</p><p>“That felt like a bad sci-fi movie,” are the first words out of Sophie’s mouth once they’re back outdoors.</p><p>“Or a horror movie right before everyone turns into zombies,”Héloïse agrees, scratching her face like crazy to rid herself of the itch from the scarf.</p><p>“It’s kinda wild though,” Sophie says while lifting the bags into the back of the car. “This is the first time in what, three weeks, that we’re around other people than ourselves and your mum.”</p><p>“I know. I almost miss being around people,” Héloïse says, smiling despite herself. “And I am completely exhausted. My brain has reverted back to the stone age, I can’t handle this many impressions in one day.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse<br/></b>[jeudi 19:51]</p><p><em> Behold, my trolley-dwelling child!<br/></em> <em> [DSC001888.jpg] </em></p><p> </p><p><b>Marianne<br/></b>[jeudi 20:07]</p><p>
  <em> She is conveniently tiny, I must say. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Pocket-sized.<br/>I think I wanna be a hermit in my next life.<br/></em> <em> Today melted my brain. Being around people is tiring. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I feel you. Oh to be a hermit crab, crabbing around at the bottom of the sea. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I meant a human hermit, silly. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ah, right. But aren’t all human hermits grumpy old men with several metres of beard? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m not sure. I’ll have to research. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Because you can probably pull off the grumpy bit quite easily, but I suspect the beard might be a bit of a challenge. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[jeudi 20:32]</p><p><em> Sorry, I fell down a Wikipedia hole about hermitism.<br/>Couldn’t find anything about female hermits being required to grow beards, so it could be a possible career choice.<br/>Seems to be quite a lot of religion involved though, which I'm more eeeeeeh about. <br/></em> <em> Also, are you calling me grumpy?! </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I would never!</em>
  <br/>
  <em>;)</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thoughts?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. a very random cloud</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Two chapters in two days? Short ones, but still. What is this?<br/>Yeah, no I have no idea.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, April 11, 08:08]</b>
</p><p><b>Marianne</b> <b><br/></b>[samedi 08:08]</p><p>
  <em> Help! </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse</b> <b><br/></b>[samedi 08:12]</p><p>
  <em> Happy Easter. What’s going on? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I’m _this_ close to cutting off all my hair. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Oookay. </em> <em> <br/></em> <em> Step away from the scissors. Slowly. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I hate my hair. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What did it do? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It exists. And it’s in that awkward phase of being neither long nor short and I need to do something about it but I can’t go to a hairdresser and it’s driving me slightly mad. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Too short for a ponytail? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> YES.<br/></em> <em> And it gets in my eyes all the time and it’s so damn warm here right now and I just want it all gone.<br/>Or out of the way. </em></p><p> </p><p>Thinking about Marianne’s hair, how soft and all over the place it is, makes Héloïse feel all soft inside in return. Bretagne is quite warm now too, but not like Paris, and she thinks of her favourite nook on the balcony of her own apartment, and how, if things had been different, she could maybe have been there with Marianne right now, having breakfast in the shade and swapping bits of the newspaper with each other. Telling her in person how utterly perfect her hair is, no matter the length.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So you don’t want to grow it out again? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> NO.<br/></em> <em> YES.<br/></em> <em> I DON’T KNOW.<br/></em> <em> ANYTHING BUT THE WAY IT IS NOW. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You could put it up into several mini-ponytails. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That would look terrible. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> It’s not like anyone would see? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But I would _know_. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> True. </em> <em> <br/></em> <em> If you do try it, may I please ask for photographic evidence? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [nemo-glaring.gif] </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>After her morning run, Héloïse spends the majority of her Easter Saturday reading. If it wasn’t for the fact that her mother had made a traditional easter dinner, she’s pretty sure she would have forgotten the holiday completely. Life is on autopilot, and they’re all more or less morning people so a little after ten in the evening, Héloïse finds herself alone in the living room, TV still on as a companion, as Sophie staggers off to bed.</p><p> </p><p>Her phone buzzes. She’s been texting back and forth with Marianne for hours, talking about nothing in particular. Sophie has been giving her all sorts of meaningful looks every time her phone has gone off, and it is nothing short of a miracle that her mother has not picked up on it.</p><p> </p><p><b>Marianne<br/></b>[samedi 22:07]</p><p>
  <em> Are you busy? </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse<br/></b>[samedi 22:07]</p><p><em> Nope, the others have gone to bed already, I’m about to do the same soon.<br/></em> <em> Why? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Can I call you instead? Of texting I mean. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sure. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>One word, reads very chill and casual on the phone, but the second the little checkmark turns blue, Héloïse’s heart speeds up. And then her phone’s buzzing. No time to fret over what to say here, no. She clears her throat, then swipes to answer the call.</p><p>“…”</p><p>“Hello?” Marianne’s voice is tentative on the other end.</p><p>“..hi?”</p><p>“Hi!”</p><p>The silence drags out enough for a stilted vibe to settle. Héloïse is nervous. She has heard Marianne’s voice every now and then during confinement – in some short stories on Instagram. This is not the same. Now she’s talking to Héloïse, and only Héloïse, because she asked to, and despite being near unable to shut up over text lately, Héloïse suddenly struggles to find something to say.</p><p>“Hi..?” Marianne says again.</p><p>“Did you know that the average cloud weighs 100 000 kilos?”</p><p>Héloïse has barely finished speaking before she’s overcome by a sudden urge to grab her bike, ride out to the Côte Sauvage and jump off a cliff. Nevermind that it’s dark, and that jumping off a cliff would most certainly kill her no matter the amount of daylight available, and that cycling for leisure is currently outlawed – maybe her conversational skills would improve in the afterlife. Or she’d be reincarnated into another bumbling mess. Most likely.</p><p>Marianne laughs, incredulously.</p><p>Héloïse’s heartbeat is slowly disappearing from inside her ears.</p><p>“I didn’t know what to say, I panicked,” she admits.</p><p>“So you went with a very random fact about clouds?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Well, I didn’t know it. Now I know.”</p><p>It sounds like Marianne might be smiling. Héloïse imagines it, which is helpful and disastrous at the same time.</p><p>“I have forgotten where exactly I read it though, so maybe don’t take it all too seriously. I can’t provide a proper source.”</p><p>“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna expose you for not properly sourcing your random facts.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>There’s a second strange silence brewing, Héloïse can feel it, and verbally swats at it with all the determination of a bumblebee trying to force its way through a window. Except she is a tad more successful simply because if she’s talking there’s actually no silence anymore.</p><p>“This is weird. Is this weird?”</p><p>Great.</p><p>Marianne giggles again.</p><p>“Maybe a little weird, yes.”</p><p>Héloïse groans.</p><p>“I have two settings when talking. Either I’m the master of words, or I’m.. not. I think I’m in the second category right now,” Héloïse explains, trying to not sound dejected.</p><p>“I don’t know if I have settings,” Marianne says. “But I tend to not talk unless I have something to say. Like in groups, I’m sometimes quiet because someone else might have already made my point.”</p><p>“I noticed. At that meeting at work. You were paying attention, mostly, but you didn’t say anything.”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Were you looking at me?”</p><p>The lilt in Marianne’s voice is so far beyond unhelpful it’s not even fair. A little teasing, a little curious, maybe a hint of.. nervousness? It might as well be imagination though.</p><p>“No, I was- you sat in my line of-” Héloïse gives up. “Yes. Okay. Fine. Yes, I spent all of that stupid meeting looking at you, and trying to figure out if you were actually taking notes or just doodling because I couldn’t see. I didn’t even consciously hate that meeting, which I usually do because I was.. busy.”</p><p>Shit. That might have been an overshare.</p><p>“But I appreciated that you didn’t say something just for the sake of talking. Most people aren’t like that.”</p><p>“I was mostly trying to not look at you. And being stressed about what to say if someone <em> had </em> asked me something,” Marianne admits.</p><p>They stay on the phone for a long time. Marianne on speakerphone talking about her confinement rewatch of some old tv show that Héloïse hasn’t seen but doesn’t mind being spoiled on while Héloïse brushes her teeth. Héloïse, in return, lying on her side with the phone balancing on the ear not pressed to the pillow, trying to explain the thing about the mysterious stone alignements at Carnac while Marianne gets ready for bed. It’s not easy, since no one really knows why they're there, which is why they're deemed mysterious in the first place, but Marianne sounds interested still, which is a good thing. Not everyone has patience for ramblings about old, mossy rocks, no matter how neatly they're placed on a field.</p><p>They only hang up when it’s becoming painfully clear that neither of them are capable of staying awake for another minute.</p><p>“It’s really nice talking to you,” Héloïse says, feeling a little brave.</p><p>“You too,” Marianne agrees. “Sorry if I caught you off guard earlier, about calling, it’s just- it’s nice to talk. Texting is nice too, but..”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>There’s a short quiet, and it’s not uncomfortable. Just sleepy.</p><p>“Talk again soon?” Héloïse asks.</p><p>“I’d like that.” Marianne’s voice has gone very soft, and when she says goodbye with a “sweet dreams, Héloïse,” in the blurry land between unconscious and awake, it almost, almost feels like she’s there with her.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yaaay, dork #1 and dork #2 finally remembered how phones <em>actually</em> work!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. this is the downfall of us all (or at least of the dignity of one H. Marteau)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>[Plouharnel, Morbihan, April 13, 07:18]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Monday morning at stupid o’clock, Héloïse walks into the kitchen, bleary eyed and bored out of her skull even though the day has barely started. She mumbles good morning to Sophie who mumbles something back, half hearted, and then does a double take.</p><p>“Wait a minute. I know that hoodie!” she exclaims, eyes suddenly very awake and no longer directed at her cereal.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m sure you’ve been formally introduced,” Héloïse mutters absentmindedly while raiding the cupboards on the hunt for raisins.</p><p>“That’s not your hoodie.”</p><p>Héloïse looks down at the faded print on the chest and feels sudden dread creeping up her neck.</p><p>“Pfft, sure it is,” she sputters, trying her best to sound convincing.</p><p>“Since when do you listen to A Day To Remember? Or did ever, that hoodie looks old.”</p><p>“Lycée.”</p><p>“Yeah right you did. Name one of their songs.”</p><p>“I.. aäeh..”</p><p>“You actually took a hoodie from a hookup with you to confinement. This is too good!” Sophie is close to bouncing now, despite still sitting down. Talking fast, the sleepyhead from half a minute ago now wholly nonexistent. “Like, it’s vaguely stalker-y but from someone as emotionally constipated as you it’s kinda cute too. Does plant-girl know?”</p><p>“Know what?”</p><p>“That her hoodie is on vacation.”</p><p>“It hasn’t come up in conversation,” Héloïse says stiffly.</p><p>“Does she know that you spilled jam or something on the hoodie she doesn’t know you’ve kidnapped and brought to Bretagne?”</p><p>Sophie reaches out to poke at an unidentifiable stain on the sleeve.</p><p>“Obviously not.”</p><p>Héloïse is exasperated, and hungry, and definitely not awake enough yet to be teased about her enormous, impractical crush.</p><p>“Can I please just have my breakfast in peace?” she tries.</p><p>“No. By the way, I’m doing a load of laundry later, I can throw it in with my stuff to get the stain out if you want.”</p><p>Sophie says it in such an innocuous way that Héloïse falls straight into the trap. Everything about the way she responds gives her away – the slight physical recoil followed by crossing her arms over her chest as if to tie the hoodie to her body.</p><p>“No!”</p><p>Then more calm, arms dropping: “I mean, no, that won’t be necessary, thank you.”</p><p>After that, Héloïse abandons all her plans of a normal breakfast, and retreats back to her room with the raisin jar and a bruised ego. And the hoodie that still, faintly, smells like Marianne.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[April 13 2020, 20:28]</b>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Marianne<br/>
</b>[lundi 20:29]</p><p>
  <em> Oh joy, another four weeks. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse<br/>
</b>[lundi 20:30]</p><p>
  <em> Yeah, it kinda sucks. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Majorly. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I don’t think I have the right to complain though, at least I have a lot of space to be outdoors, and company, half of which doesn’t drive me slightly bonkers. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Yeah, I’m not gonna lie, if I could teleport I would have jumped over to your garden like at least a week ago.<br/>
Just to be able to stroll around for a little while without feeling guilty or monitored or stressed out about other people coming too close would be so nice. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> I know it makes zero actual difference, but I’d happily take a stroll for you.<br/>
</em> <em> I could send telepathic outdoor vibes and positive energy.<br/>
</em> <em> I don’t believe in new-agey stuff like that for the record, not really, but still.<br/>
</em> <em> If I could teleport you here I would. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That is very sweet of you :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The president keeps going on and on and on about the finer details of the extended confinement. Héloïse’s tea has gone cold.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[April 17 2020, 17:58]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse has been standing in the kitchen, staring at a somewhat wrinkly bell pepper for the better part of five minutes, pondering what to make of it, when Sophie enters the kitchen with energy levels way surpassing those of both Héloïse and the vegetable.</p><p>“Hey, wanna know what I just remembered?”</p><p>“Mhm?” Héloïse says, turning to look at her bouncy confinement-mate instead of the tired legume.</p><p>“Happy one month of confinement day!”</p><p>“Thanks? I think?”</p><p>“Not necessarily,” Sophie agrees. “But anyway, it’s been a month. You know what we should do?”</p><p>“Make dinner?” Héloïse semi-asks, tossing her the sad bell pepper. Sophie fumbles it and it ends up on the floor with a weak thud.</p><p>“Well, yes that too, I’m starving. But we should celebrate.” She picks up the bell pepper and blows on it.</p><p>“Celebrate that we’ve been locked up for a month?”</p><p>“Do you have any prior immovable commitments tonight?” Sophie asks, with an incredulous look, and Héloïse can’t for the life of her come up with a reasonable answer.</p><p>And that, ends up being the beginning of a mostly redacted story in which Sophie and Héloïse raids the wine cellar and dances in the kitchen to shitty 90’s bops until stupid o’clock in the morning. When they finally stagger off to their respective rooms, Héloïse starts a very one sided texting conversation with Marianne.</p><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse<br/>
</b>[samedi 02:26]</p><p>
  <em> Hppy one confinement day!! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oopsie, past midnight, it was yesterday. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Happy one month and one day of confinement then. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Also unhappy me because I haven’t kissed you in all that time, and then some. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Marianne I want to kiss you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> On the mouth. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And other places. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse tries to find the shifty eyes emoji but gives up after lots of squinting at her screen and tapping the wrong ones repeatedly. Words are better. Words are her friends.</p><p> </p><p>[samedi 02:34]</p><p>
  <em> I wnt to go down on you until your knees don’t work. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> That was the hottestthing EVER by the way. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I think abot it much. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Think aboutyou. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Mss -i opop, </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <b>[April 18 2020, 10:09]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse wakes up to a thundering headache and what she suspects might be the worst case of cotton mouth this side of the Atlantic. She reaches for the glass of water next to her bed, which tastes almost as bad today as it did back when she had no functioning taste buds thanks to covid, downs it in one go, and sinks back into her pillow with a groan. Yesterday night is a blur, set to the tones of Bring It All Back and Wannabe. She’d gladly have either of those songs stuck in her head for a week if it would rid her of her headache, but she’s not sure what deity to bargain that exchange with, and so she resorts to lying very still and hoping that it will pass as soon as possible either way.</p><p>She spends maybe fifteen minutes on her back, eyes closed to ward off the bright spring light, drawing long, slow breaths to try and quell the waves of nausea. Her phone buzzes, and she flails her arm about for a while, unwilling to move any other part of herself, until she finds it under one of her pillows.</p><p> </p><p><b>Sophie<br/>
</b>[samedi 10:28]</p><p>
  <em> I am dying. Please tell me you’re also dying. Everything else would be unfair. See you on the other side of noon. </em>
</p><p>She replies with a simple <em> “Also dying. Later.” </em> and is about to drop her phone onto the duvet when she taps out of her conversation with Sophie and spots something.</p><p>Unread messages.</p><p>Five of them.</p><p>From Marianne.</p><p>On one hand, there’s the happy jolt in her stomach that she has gotten quite accustomed to whenever Marianne texts her</p><p>On the other hand, that little flock of butterflies is immediately followed by imminent dread and blurry flashbacks of searching for emojis in the middle of the night. Héloïse squeezes her eyes shut, to postpone whatever disaster might await her when she opens the messages, for a few more seconds.</p><p>She opens her left eye first, squinting at the screen in an illogical attempt to try and soften the blow.</p><p> </p><p><b>Marianne<br/>
</b>[samedi 08:13]</p><p>
  <em> Wow. Um. Yeah. So. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Did you by any chance get drunk last night? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Happy more than a month of confinement to you too by the way. And I agree, it’s been too long since you kissed me. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[samedi 08:47]</p><p>
  <em> I guess you’re still asleep. I hope you won’t feel too terrible when you wake up. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>[samedi 09:28]</p><p>
  <em> [DCIM003465_.jpeg] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The last text is just a photo of the tiny table on Marianne’s minuscule balcony. It’s sunny, and there’s coffee and orange juice and croissants. Héloïse would gladly sell a piece of her soul to the devil for the ability to teleport there. But instead of bartering with the underworld, she taps out a reply to Marianne before she can stress herself out too much about the whole situation.</p><p> </p><p>[samedi 10:33]</p><p>
  <em> I’m terribly sorry for the last bunch of texts. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> And I’m hungover as fuck. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m gonna crawl into a dark hole somewhere and stay there until I’m not ashamed anymore.<br/>
It might take a while and I’m not sure about cell phone reception. So don’t freak out if I’m slow at answering. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It might be stupid luck, or possibly just plain old exhaustion, but she falls back asleep before there’s any reply. It’s there when she resurfaces though.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [samedi 12:01] </em>
</p><p><em> Héloïse.<br/>
</em> <em> You don’t need to be ashamed. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [samedi 13:38] </em>
</p><p><em> That is very kind of you to say but I think I do. I’m still mortified.<br/>
</em> <em> Can we please talk about something else? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> [samedi 13:42] </em>
</p><p><em> I think your cactus is about to grow a flower.<br/>
</em> <em> I didn’t even know they could do that. </em></p><p> </p><p>Héloïse is infinitely grateful at Marianne for letting the disaster texting slide, even if it’s just for the time being.</p><p> </p><p><em> Otto?!<br/>
</em> <em> How?<br/>
</em> <em> What did you do to him?<br/>
</em> <em> I don’t mean that in an accusing way by the way. Consider me stunned.<br/>
</em> <em> Otto hasn’t grown a millimeter in years. </em></p><p> </p><p><em> I have no idea.<br/>
</em> <em> I’ve only watered him once, and just a little.<br/>
</em> <em> Maybe ask Sophie? </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nah, she doesn’t like cacti much, I don’t think she would know. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But she has 9 succulents. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Apparently those are different. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well, at least we can be doubly confused together then. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Doubly? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> About Otto growing a flower and Sophie only liking some dry-area plants. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ah yes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> How is the hangover/hiding in a cave going btw? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Can we please not talk about that? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If you insist. But I will keep insisting that you have nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t you think it was bound to happen eventually? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Me getting insanely drunk and sending dumb texts? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> No, either of us finally caving and talking more outright about the elephant in the room. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Oh. Yeah. That. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Maybe. Yes. Probably. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Did you lose your ability to write complete multiple-word sentences just now? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> :) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Maybe. Yes. Probably. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You’re funny. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Thanks, I’m trying. </em> <em><br/>
</em> <em> I don’t get that often. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> You are though, in a sort of unassuming way. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Marianne lets it slide again – it being the “I have a huge crush on you and I think you like me back just as much”-thing. Héloïse is grateful, but she also feels a bit off about it. Marianne has a point. There is an elephant present, and it’s becoming a bit of a nuisance.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She ends up calling her. The next day, when her brain is mostly back to working. Just gathering the courage to do that takes Héloïse the better part of Sunday morning, staring at her phone, thumb hovering over the little phone icon. Seven tones and lots of nervous heartbeats pass before Marianne picks up, and then her voice is a little muffled.</p><p>“Sorry, I’m out walking, it’s the facemask. Gimme a sec.”</p><p>Héloïse nods, then remembers Marianne can’t actually see her, and adds a “yep” for good measure.</p><p>“There. Better?” a clearer voice says.</p><p>“Less mumbly.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>There’s a short pause, the rushing noise of a car passing by on Marianne’s end.</p><p>“Soo..?” Marianne continues. “Are you feeling better today?”</p><p>“Yeah. A bit.” Héloïse sighs. “That’s kinda why I called. I know you say I don’t have to, but I feel like I should apologise.”</p><p>“Apology unnecessary, but accepted.”</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Héloïse feels her shoulders drop a little in relief, but she still has things she wants to say.</p><p>“So, about what you said yesterday. About the elephant,” she continues.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“You’re right. There is an elephant. And I’m not sure what to do about it.”</p><p>“Me neither,” Marianne agrees. “We can’t really do much right now, can we? I’m here, you’re there, and we’re locked down for another three weeks.”</p><p>“I just-” Héloïse swallows, giving herself a second to organise her words, scared of saying too much, or too little. “I just want to talk to you all the time, you know.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know. Me too.”</p><p>“That’s good to know.”</p><p>“Yep.” Marianne goes silent for a little while. “So, maybe we should just keep doing what we do. And then when you’re in Paris again we can have that dinner we agreed on?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Unless I’ve accidentally killed all the plants by then.” A laugh.</p><p>“I don’t think you could. And most of them are Sophie’s anyway. So it wouldn’t make a difference in the dinner plans I don’t think.”</p><p>“So unless the plants that are yours die, we’re good?”</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thoughts?</p><p>Song recommendation: A Day To Remember - The Downfall Of Us All<br/>Issa bop. If something that heavy but still undeniably pop-punk at its core can qualify as a bop, that is.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. 'cause I know that it's delicate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Because the best of mondays deserves an update.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>[April 20 2020, 16:23]</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“I don’t know if I said before.. I like your room. It’s very cosy.”</p><p>“Thanks.” The homesickness hits Héloïse like a metaphorical snowball. There's also a peculiar sadness. She wants to be there now, wanted to be there the first time Marianne came around to water the plants too, to show her around, to quietly regret the unframed 00's movie posters on some of the walls, and the forever-messy entrance. Offer her a cup of tea, see her marvel, hopefully, at the view over rooftops and a million chimneys from the balcony. Hearing her talk about it is great too, but she would have liked to experience it in person, maybe while sitting next to her on the rickety bench-thing she and Sophie had constructed out of some ancient wooden beer crates and whatnot last summer.</p><p>But, no.</p><p>Instead, Héloïse is pacing, as much as the two square metres of available floor in her room in the summer house allows her to, although it’s not so very summery today what with rain streaking the windows and painting everything either side of the glass panes in a greyish hue. The phone is trapped between her shoulder and ear for no good reason, she puts her hands in her pockets, then turns on the spot like a soldier in a military drill, sweatpant-clad leg swinging out in front of her.</p><p>“I have never ever used plant nutrition before this mission,” Marianne tells her after a minute or so of water running in the background and the muted sound of various things being moved around and put down. She can almost picture it, except she doesn’t know what Marianne is wearing today so she can’t quite complete the visual, and asking would be weird.</p><p>“Neither have I,” Héloïse says instead. “I’m just blindly doing whatever the dryad says is best. Apparently you can also buy dirt designed for specific types of plants. It’s all very serious.”</p><p>“Most hobbies are, if you allow them to be,” Marianne points out.</p><p>“True. Specific dirt is beyond me though.”</p><p>“Oh, same. I think it’s called soil though, not dirt.”</p><p>“Eh, same difference,” Héloïse huffs. “Did you find the book? It’s brownish-orange.”</p><p>Through her headphones, she can hear her moving about over creaky floorboards, then the faint thumping sound of Marianne sifting through books. Probably setting off a cloud of dust since they’ve been left untouched for over a month.</p><p>“Orange and looks like it’s about to fall apart? Yeah, I found it.”</p><p>“Good. I mean I knew it would be somewhere, because I didn’t take it with me.” Héloïse stops her pacing, flops down on her bed and falls back. The wall only catches the very back of her head, and if someone came through the door now there would be an inordinate amount of chins on display. She’s suddenly grateful that their conversations haven’t evolved to Facetime just yet.</p><p>“What did Antoine think about the last batch of drawings by the way? They have been passed along to the author too, but she hadn’t answered last time I checked my emails.”</p><p>“Drawings: excellent, so I guess that’s more of an issue of me being hard on myself,” Marianne huffs. Héloïse hums in agreement. “He’s still iffy about the font options though.”</p><p>“Antoine needs to stop being a pretentious sans-serif hipster and take a look at the designs of some of the international editions of Harry Potter. I mean, JK can be an ass-backwards bigot all she wants, but there’s no denying the craft that went into some of the hardback editions of her work.”</p><p>“Oh, agree. And about that,” Marianne continues, “I feel a bit like the core lore of Harry Potter is borderline public domain at this point, at least to our generation. It’s a shame that she says all the terrible things she does, but I would be lying if I tried to deny the impact those books had on tiny me.”</p><p>“Same. Although if I had to pick a fave childhood fantasy series, I think I'd go for Narnia.”</p><p>There’s a gasp on the other end of the line. Héloïse can’t quite tell if it’s joking or serious.</p><p>“I’m a younger sister. Lucy Pevensie spoke to me,” she adds.</p><p>Marianne laughs, agrees that it is a reasonable explanation, sidetracks briefly to let her know that Otto the Cactus seems to be sprouting yet another flower. “Sadly, I never identified much with Susan, so I can’t say much for the big-sister perspective,” she adds, “she was a bit of a fun-sponge, wasn’t she?”</p><p>“She was. Poor Susan. Nobody's fave. By the way, what house are you in?”</p><p>“House?” Marianne sounds confused. “I’m in your house, watering plants and picking up a book you told me to read.”</p><p>Héloïse holds back a laugh. “Hogwarts house I mean.”</p><p>“Oh. Right. Yes.” She huffs and puffs a little, Héloïse pictures her making a mildly indignated face. “I suppose I’m a Ravenclaw. But I always wanted to be a Gryffindor as a kid.”</p><p>“Didn’t we all,” Héloïse agrees, then thinks again. “So teen-emo-you never tried to make a case for Slytherin? I would have thought that was the preferable choice, they’re clearly the most goth of the bunch, no?”</p><p>“Goth is not the same thing as emo, I’ve told you.”</p><p>“Meh. Dark clothes, mopey aesthetic. Tomato potato.”</p><p>“You know I’m shaking my head at you now?”</p><p>“I can live with that.”</p><p>“So what about you then?” Marianne asks.</p><p>“Oh, Slytherin, easy.”</p><p>There’s a silence on the other end of the line.</p><p>“Marianne? Are you still there?”</p><p>“What? Yes? Yep, I’m here. Just, a bit surprised.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because.. well, I kinda thought of you as a Hufflepuff. You seem like a very loyal person.”</p><p>Héloïse is not sure what to say to that, because Marianne is not wrong per se, she is loyal. She just has a hard time connecting herself and her often anger-fuelled, principle-heavy support of people to the inherent warmth and homeliness that she’s always associated with Hufflepuff, is all.</p><p>“That is.. a very nice thing to say.” It comes out almost as a question, but as the words leave her mouth, she is struck by the insight that she actually does mean it.</p><p>“So, not offended that I didn’t pick up on your dignified Slytherin traits?”</p><p>“No, not at all.”</p><p>“Maybe you’re a Slytherpuff,” Marianne suggests.</p><p>Héloïse lets out a surprise laugh at the mashed up name. “If it sounded a bit less silly I would perhaps consider it,” she decides.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The clock is approaching six in the evening when Héloïse reluctantly says goodbye to Marianne to go help Sophie with dinner. As confinement has gone on, they’ve fallen into a weird rut of barely seeing each other outside of meals most days, both of them stuck in their respective patterns of remote work and studies. Even Héloïse's mother has been keeping to herself, the rain dampening her garden gnome spirits in favour of whatever she occupies herself with in the annex. It’s odd, asking the people you live with how their days have been when neither of you has left the house, but there simply is no energy. If it wasn’t for their habit of seven o’clock dinner, Héloïse suspects that she could go several days without seeing a living soul.</p><p>Once sustenance is out of the way, she suggests watching a movie, but her mother declines due to having scheduled a Zoom hangout with some friends, which is a combination of words that Héloïse would never have imagined her mother to utter before the spring of 2020, and Sophie has an essay to finish, so instead Héloïse finds herself sat alone in her room again, long before the sun has even set. She texts a batch of dumb memes to Antoine, but he doesn’t reply, and after an internal discussion with herself on the topic and definition of being clingy, she sends a Narnia meme to Marianne, too, before returning her attention to the newest draft she’s been handed. It’s not half bad as far as the story goes, the world building in particular stands out, but the author is sadly in dire need of spell check.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p><b>Marianne</b><br/>[lundi 21:43]</p><p>
  <em> You dork. Aslan is so memeable. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Anyway, this book is very cute, and thoughtful. I like it so far. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><b>Héloïse<br/></b>[lundi 21:43]</p><p>
  <em> I’m glad you like it. It really is one of my favourites. </em>
</p><p><em> No offense to The Neverending Story, but it’s not nearly as good and still gets so much hype. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> I blame the movies. </em></p><p> </p><p>Héloïse puts her own book down, thinks of the countless times she’s lost herself to the one Marianne is currently reading, thinks of time as a concept, a value, a way of making life seem a little less uncontrollable and abstract. Of how there’s never enough of it, not even now when in a way it is all she has. Her phone buzzes again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think I’m a little drunk. It’s dumb.<br/>I had a glass of wine after dinner because I wanted today to feel like less of a Monday, but now it just feels like Monday but tipsy.<br/>:/<br/></em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> I’m not tipsy, but I know what you mean.<br/></em> <em> Every day feels like a Monday right now. </em></p><p> </p><p>Marianne is typing, then she stops. Héloïse stares, hoping for the dots to reappear but there’s nothing. She pushes herself up, rearranges the pillows against the headboard, and can practically feel when the less cautious part of her brain takes over.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I can’t stop thinking about you, I really wish you were here. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Checkmark. Then the dots come and go for a while, while doubt slowly settles in Héloïse’s gut. The drunk-texting mess of two days ago is still fresh in her mind, and she’s terrified of overstepping again, despite the conversation yesterday that ended up being the closest they’ve come to acknowledging the <em> something </em> growing between them. When Marianne's answer pops up, Héloïse can feel her shoulders dropping.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I wish you were here too. I just.. miss being around people without keeping a distance and second-guessing everything I do. And I miss being touched. I haven’t as much as hugged another human since mid March. Actually, you might have been the last one. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Touched. Touched?<br/>In a split-second she decides to throw the doubts and caution to the wind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What would you want to do if you were here? Or if I was back in Paris? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> What do you think we would do? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She feels her face heat up in an instant, thanks to some painfully lively imagination, and burrows deeper down in her nest of duvet and pillows again, trying to come up with a witty response. Or at least something not too heart-on-sleeve.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Coward. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>In immediate hindsight, not very witty, or brave for that matter, but it will have to do. Marianne is typing again, so at least it is resulting in something.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If I’m a coward you’re a coward too. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Hey, indulge me here. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> You tell me yours then I’ll tell you mine.<br/></em> <em> I promise you we can pretend like this conversation never happened. </em></p><p> </p><p>She’s practically begging, what the hell is wrong with her? Héloïse frowns at herself.</p><p> </p><p><em> Okay, fine, here you go, but we do not speak of this tomorrow okay?<br/></em> <em> Promise? I will be embarrassed. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Not a word, I promise. Now tell me! </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So, if the world was still normal, I think we’d be at my place watching a movie or tv show.<br/>Maybe we had some takeout earlier, or leftovers, because it’s Monday night and we’re both tired from work, so no one has energy for cooking. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is very domestic, cosy, I like it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Shut up, I’m building an ambiance. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Sorry, sorry, keep going. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> At some point I end up lying down on the couch with my legs over your lap, maybe you’re running a hand over my leg, in that way like you’re not really thinking about it, it’s just a comfort thing.<br/>So I kinda doze off because everything feels safe and warm, and I’m tired after a long day. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse can picture it, and she wants to pop in with a snarky comment about what a complete softie Marianne is being, but somehow doesn’t have it in her. And Marianne keeps on typing. So she waits, phone in hand, wondering if her mind and Marianne’s will take the same possible routes from here.</p><p> </p><p><em> When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that I can’t make sense of the plot of the movie, so I’ve definitely been sleeping for a while. The second thing I notice is that you’re not watching the movie either, because you’re looking at me. And I don’t feel weird about it at all, because you have such a soft look in your eyes, that kinda says that the world might be a confusing and scary place, but it can also be lovely in the small spaces all the same.<br/></em> <em> So I take your hand, or grab hold of your sweater, or whatever really, the whole point is that I pull you down on top of me. I think that maybe you hesitate for a second, not wanting to crush me or whatever, but then you lie down half on top of me, you’re kind of leaning on your right arm. </em></p><p> </p><p>A wall of text. A pause. Héloïse stares at the screen, as if her staring hard enough could make Marianne, 350 kilometers away as the bird flies, type any faster.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Tease. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Her one-word message sends half a second before Marianne’s next reply pops up.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And then you kiss me. Or I pull you even closer and kiss you, maybe.<br/>The point is that we’re kissing right now, in some parallel universe.<br/>Do you believe in parallel universes? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse feels like her entire brain capacity has been reduced to a bunch of moving dots and she’s not sure if moving dots are capable of imagining parallel universes, honestly.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Anyway, so. If this was happening, I think maybe it would start off slow, because I would be a little sleepy, and we’re both working from home, so no real hurry to go to bed. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse could come up with several good reasons to hurry to bed, but she doesn’t type that. She simply waits.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Just kissing slowly, enjoying the small things. Like the switch from soft, languid kisses to more intense and back again.<br/>A short break where you put butterfly kisses all over my cheeks and nose, maybe I tease you for being silly, then you say something about me teasing you and I talk back saying you haven’t seen anything of me teasing yet. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Well, I guess you have a point there, you haven’t been teasing me, not much anyway. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Héloïse types in mindless innocence. Marianne’s next reply is anything but.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> So how would you feel if I did? Tease you I mean. </em>
</p><p><em> What if I kissed that spot on your neck – I know you know where.<br/>What if I held you close, whispering all the things I planned on doing eventually, while letting the hand not playing with your hair touch you in all the </em> kind of <em> innocent places? Your ribcage, your stomach, the small of your back.<br/>Sneaking my hands under whatever you’re wearing so I could feel how soft and strong you are.<br/>Close, close to where you actually would want my hands, but not quite there. </em></p><p> </p><p>Héloïse <b>does</b> know that spot on her neck, she can feel it very well now because her heart is racing, and there’s this almost painful, aching longing inside of her that she doesn’t know how to quell. Marianne is giving her lots to think about.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I think my brain would melt.<br/>Or if I’m still the one on top I would probably collapse because my arms would go weak.<br/>And I would probably want to touch you. Everywhere. </em>
</p><p><em> Actually, not probably. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Definitely.<br/></em> <em> Definitely want to touch you. </em></p><p> </p><p>Héloïse is uncomfortable. She is also turned on and intrigued and reluctantly fascinated. And yes the latter two are more or less the same thing. Whatever.<br/>Sexting has never been much of a thing in her life, she has never seen the point of it, but now here she is, hanging on Marianne’s every word, trying to come up with the right things to say to keep her typing.</p><p> </p><p><em> :)<br/></em> <em> So what if I held your hips as you kissed me, and then pushed my thigh up between yours? I think that’s what would make you almost fall down on me. I know you would be gasping, hot air against my neck, and the way your body would move, grinding down – thoughtless and focused at the same time. I’d keep my hands on your hips, maybe grab your ass, because I want to feel you close to me and growing desperate, and then I’d flip us over. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I hope we don’t fall off the couch. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Why, Héloïse, why bring up stupid logistics at this time and place? She curses at herself, covering her eyes with her free hand for a moment before trying to figure out how to unsend, but too late, Marianne has already read the digital brainfart and is typing again.</p><p> </p><p><em> We don’t.<br/></em> <em> But I would use the brief pause from kissing to take off my shirt. I’m pretty sure you’d like that.<br/>And I would like the way you’d look at me, like nothing else exists in the world.<br/>And the way you’d let your hands travel from my thighs, up my hips, waist, my ribs.<br/>Gentle, but certain. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> And then I would stop you, just below..<br/></em> <em> ..and you would pout, and I would take your hands and hold them above your head as I lie down on top of you, and we would be kissing again within seconds, and feeling your body against mine, pushed together, skin on skin. </em></p><p> </p><p>This time, Héloïse doesn’t mention that Marianne never actually said anything about <em> her </em> shirt coming off, only her own. She’s far too enraptured to give a crap about insignificant logistical details at this point.</p><p>Marianne holding her hands though. Just, keeping her from having free reign over soft curves, smooth skin. Now that, is a thought. That she’s having. Yes. Okay.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I would sneak one hand down at some point, touching you above your sweatpants, and you would twitch into it, your head tipping back, moaning, and I would let go of your hands. And you would immediately put one hand on my back, holding me even closer, the other one in my hair. You’d be breathing hot air in the crook of my neck, stuttered words that I can’t make sense of, except I can anyway because the sentiment and setting says everything. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p> </p><p>With a solid thumping of heartbeat in her ears, Héloïse stares at her phone, scrolling back up a bit and then down again to make sure. Because it could be imagination, but no. The words are all there. And when she’s read all the way down again, Marianne has stopped typing.</p><p>She waits for a minute, but nothing happens.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Marianne?<br/>Where did you go?<br/>Please come back? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> I can see that you’re typing. Please confirm existence? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Allô? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p>
  <em> I’m so sorry, this whole thing went way out of line.<br/>Definitely ended up going places I didn’t intend for it to when I first started typing.<br/>Please just ignore this. </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Wow.<br/></em> <em> Don’t be sorry.<br/></em> <em> I just. Wow. </em></p><p><em> I don’t want to ignore this. I’m just slow at typing right now. </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Give me a second to catch up with my brain. </em></p><p> </p><p>Marianne is quiet for a little while, Héloïse is not sure for how long, time-wise, but enough for her phone screen to go dark. She’s still not quite caught up with her brain though, but that is likely to take a while, given recent events.</p><p> </p><p>[lundi, 22:33]<br/><em> I mean it though. I really wish you were here right now. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> If you were here right now, I don’t even know where I’d start. </em>
</p><p><br/><em> I know </em> <b> <em>exactly</em> </b> <em> where I’d start. </em></p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Eeep.</p><p>I've never sexted anyone in my life, I hope I didn't fuck it up.</p><p>Also, am I gonna sneak mentions of "Momo" into every other fic I write?<br/>Yes. Yes I am.<br/>Seriously, go read it, it's a wonderful book.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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